


Bind Them With Fury

by Yahtzee



Category: Alias
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:36:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 111,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Vaughn's secret past is revealed, he goes rogue -- and Sydney embarks on a quest for revenge, demanding that her friends and family follow her despite their misgivings.  But when the mysterious Rambaldi follower known as Monarch sets a doomsday plan into motion, Sydney must discover Vaughn's true agenda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written after the end of Season Four and therefore disregards all later canon. Thanks to Rheanna, Counteragent and Monanotlisa for the betas!

**Santa Barbara, California**

 

Blood.

Vaughn was aware of nothing else at first – not sensation, not sight, not thought. Only the taste in his mouth, thickening against his tongue.

He began attempting to move by instinct, not conscious thought – but then pain lashed his body, making him groan and hold still. Slowly the world coalesced around him, bit by bit: the hardness of the steering wheel against his cheek. Dylan still singing, his voice now tinny and distant. Heat prickling across his forehead, dripping down from a line of pure fire at his scalp. Sunlight, too bright to see in, so bright that Vaughn knew the tinted windows were shattered.

And one breath.

"Syd?" Vaughn managed to turn his head – his neck ached horribly, but he could move – toward the other side of the car. But the tears that stung his eyes had nothing to do with the pain.

Sydney lay crumpled next to him – no longer in her seat, but against the door, which lay against the embankment. He could not tell if her face was badly damaged or not; he could see nothing but blood, obscuring her features, clotting in her hair. Broken glass covered her body, plates and shards and splinters that glittered in the too-hot sun. Vaughn tried to reach toward her, but his shoulder protested, holding him in place.

_You knew this would happen. _

Savagely, Vaughn pushed the thought away. He could figure out if this meant – well, just what this meant later. He had to take care of Sydney now.

_Cell phone, _he thought. _If I can just get to my cell, one keystroke and the agency will be here in five minutes flat –_

A shadow fell across his face – cool shade in the shape of a human body.

"Thank God," Vaughn rasped, turning his protesting neck toward their rescuer – who might also be the one who hit them, but he'd deal with details later. "You've got to call an ambulance. My fiancee's hurt."

No reply. He squinted through the sunlight, making out the only detail of the man he could – his hand. Between the thumb and forefinger was a dark blue tattoo: the eye of Rambaldi.

Vaughn froze. He expected, in that moment, to die. But instead of a gunshot, he heard a familiar voice say, "The prophecy remains unfulfilled."

"No." Nothing seemed real – but this Vaughn could never have forgotten. "I'm not the one."

"You know who you are." The hand brushed away a broken bit of the rear-view mirror, but it made no more toward Vaughn to help or to hurt. "Monarch has always known. Now, even you see it. Don't you?"

He choked out the words, "I trusted you."

"Then trust me now. Because I'm telling you the truth."

_It can't be me,_ Vaughn thought. _It can't be. I don't believe it. I won't. _

But Sydney lay next to him, covered in blood, and the words in his father's notebooks left no more room for doubt. The risk Sydney was in – had been in for so long, though Vaughn had refused to see it –

He retched, pain clenching around his chest and throat. The only reaction from his witness was unemotional and clear:

"This is a warning. It's the only one you're going to get."

Footsteps – and the hand vanished, leaving Vaughn alone with Sydney's broken body and the knowledge of what he had nearly done.

What he would still do, unless he accepted his fate.

 

**Los Angeles, California  
**

Jack walked through the prison corridors with a light, easy step. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in such a good mood while in a jail.

The woman he'd come to see did not look as pleased. "So, Elena failed to kill you." Katya Derevko reclined upon her bunk as though it were a chaise-lounge covered in velvet. "Pleased though I am to know that Elena failed at anything, I can't say I'm delighted to see you alive and well."

"The feeling is mutual. But I keep my promises." He held out the documentation for her, papers Hayden Chase had signed only after considerable protest. But Jack could be persuasive when he needed to be – and just after saving the world, he had more than enough leverage. "A full pardon, and an immediate release. We defeated Elena, and we wouldn't have done that without your help."

"It's so good to feel appreciated." Katya stretched her arms lazily, as if arising from a short nap instead of a year's imprisonment. "Will Elena be taking my place in the cell? I want to know if I should do anything foul to the linens before I leave."

Jack didn't bother breaking the news gently; such delicacy was unnecessary. "Elena is dead."

Katya's only reaction was a raised eyebrow; her bow-shaped mouth hinted at a smile. "Did you have the privilege, Jack? Your taste for murdering Derevkos is somewhat unsettling, at least from my point of view."

"I didn't kill Elena. Irina did."

"Irina?" Katya's eyes went wide. Jack revealed no reaction; it was foolish to imagine that the prison wasn't taping this, or that the tapes wouldn't be scrutinized later.

He kept his voice stern as he answered, "Irina Derevko was in her sister's custody for a considerable period of time – how long, we're not sure. The woman I killed was a double." Jack wondered for a moment who she was, what she'd been thinking, but he quickly let it go. Some questions were better unasked. "Irina was retrieved from Elena's custody into that of the CIA. She agreed to help us against Elena, but in the process, she managed to make her escape."

Anyone reviewing the tapes would know that was all true, and could glean no proof that it wasn't the entire truth.

The smile on Katya's face grew broader, but her anger hadn't vanished – merely taken on a different, more playful shape. "And how did she take to meeting her killer after the fact?"

"With her right hook." Any greater elaboration than that would condemn him and Irina both.

The answer satisfied Katya more than the full truth would have, anyway; of that, Jack was certain. She strolled happily from her cell, keeping pace with Jack as they walked toward the door to her freedom. Most prisoners would have shown awe, or gratitude, or a final burst of anger at the jail that had held them for so long. Katya might have been going to lunch. Would she now be an enemy or an ally? Probably, Jack thought, she would take whatever role served her purpose that day.

All the same, she had given them the clues they needed to find Irina again, and for that alone, Jack felt he owed her one more truth. "There's something else you should know. About Nadia."

Katya stopped in place, the echo of their footsteps continuing on a moment longer than they did. "My God." She looked up into his face, all distrust gone. "She isn't dead, is she?"

"No. However, she was infected. We don't have an antidote yet, but we're working on it. Right now she's under sedation in the hospital." Jack weighed telling her about Sloane's choice to shoot Nadia and save Sydney, then decided against it. It was hard enough to believe even if you'd been there.

"She will die." Katya's utter conviction showed no sign of grief. "It's inevitable. You should understand that, if you don't already."

"Because Rambaldi said so? Forgive my skepticism."

"I'll forgive you nothing." She said it with a laugh, even a hint of her old flirtatiousness. "Jack, only you could see the end of the world unfolding just the way Rambaldi said it would, then insist it was just a trick of the light."

As he opened the door that took them away from the cells – into freedom – Jack shook his head. "If you'll notice, the world is still here."

"For now."

"You get the clothes you came in with and a voucher that should cover air travel to Europe. After that, you're on your own." He wondered what else he should say. "Good Luck" would not have been entirely sincere.

"After that, I shall find my sister." Katya stepped closer to Jack than she had been since the night they'd made love. The scent of her skin was familiar. "Will I need to update her on certain – consensual acts, or have you already done so?"

"I haven't. Whether or not you choose to do so is of no consequence to me."

"Do you think it will be of any consequence to Irina? I rather doubt it. It seems impossible that she could hate you more."

Jack remembered Irina's face as they had said their farewells – the strength in her smile, the fragility of their kiss. "I would ask you only to remember something a wise man said – an Argentinian novelist, Borges, I think –"

"What's that?"

"It takes two to tango."

Katya laughed. "You know, for a moment there, I remembered why I liked you?"

"Do me a favor and forget." His cell phone chirped in his pocket, and Jack stepped away from Katya to take it. As he moved to the door, he said to a nearby guard, "Don't let her leave yet."

"Going to walk me out, Jack?" Katya called merrily. He ignored this.

As soon as the door shut behind him, fine raindrops speckled his suit jacket and the surface of his cell phone as he answered. The voice on the other end had spoken no more than seven words before Jack's heart seemed to change inside him – as though he no longer had a pulse but a fist, battering its way through his chest. He had to swallow hard before asking the only question that mattered. "Is she alive?"

Then he could breathe again, but his minor annoyance at dealing with Katya, his duties at APO, even the raindrops against his forehead were all very far away. The only thing that mattered was getting to Sydney. "What hospital?" Even as the doctor told him the answer, Jack turned to the guard outside and said, "Tell them to release Katya Derevko."

"Sir, we were told you would complete debrief –"

"There's an emergency." He was already running through the parking lot to his car.

 

**Santa Barbara, California**

 

The crowded hallways of Santa Barbara Cottage Hospital would have told Jack that this was a teaching facility, even if he had not demanded that Marshall run a check on the place as he flew up. Jack jostled his way through the throng, heading toward the doctor's office where somebody would finally give him full answers about Sydney's condition or be extremely sorry.

He would have thought that nothing could stop him from getting there as fast as possible, but then he walked past the open door of an examination room and saw Michael Vaughn.

Vaughn looked bad – black eye, shoulder in a sling and ugly stitches along his hairline, but he was sitting up, conscious and apparently coherent. If he was ambulatory, then perhaps Sydney's situation wasn't very dire.

"Vaughn? How is Sydney?" No response. Jack re-evaluated the "coherent" judgment. "Vaughn? It's Jack."

"I know." His words were thick; perhaps his tongue was swollen or his jaw injured. "I'm sorry. Jack, I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt her. That was the last thing I ever wanted to do."

Jack was in no mood for Vaughn's self-flagellation and would gladly have made this clear. But then he reminded himself: Sydney was marrying this man, for whatever reason, and as such Vaughn was now Jack's responsibility in a way he had never been before.

In the waiting area, an unhappy baby began to shriek. Jack recognized the cry from Sydney's infancy – the high-pitched, uneven wail of a baby in true distress. Where were the doctors in this place?

Jack said, "We'll get you to APO's medical facilities as soon as Sydney can be moved." Vaughn looked up at him, dead to hope; a burst blood vessel had clouded part of the left eye a dark red that reminded Jack too strongly of Sovogda. "She's going to be all right, Vaughn. You have to – get control of yourself."

The words affected Vaughn more than Jack would have hoped; he straightened up somewhat, and his ragged breathing steadied. "Yeah," he said. His voice was flat. "Syd's going to be fine."

Only then did Jack realize that Vaughn had no doubt been given painkillers; he was wasting time speaking to a doped-up shadow. "You should rest. I'm going to talk to Sydney's doctor, find out how she is. I'll come back. Until then – sleep, if you can. You need it."

"I know what I need to do."

Jack found that reply strangely off, but Sydney's doctor was waiting, and Vaughn was possibly so drugged that his words did not merit much weight. He would have time to talk to Vaughn at greater length later.

When at last he was able to speak to a doctor, Jack learned that Sydney had a concussion, broken ribs, a sprained wrist, deep bruising and small cuts all over her body. The worst damage was to her hip; the bone had been pulled from its socket. Though it had already been reset and no surgery would be required, she would experience swelling and severe pain for weeks to come. After hearing this litany of his daughter's injuries, Jack could not bring himself to be grateful that it had not been worse – but he knew it could have been.

"Tell Mr. Vaughn – the man in the accident with her – tell him that she's going to be all right, and that I'll be with him shortly," Jack said at the door to Sydney's hospital room. To truly keep his word to Vaughn, Jack should have gone to him immediately, but he could see Sydney now through the door's narrow rectangular window, just her hand – but even that was too much for him to turn away.

He stepped inside with the same silence and care he would have used to break into a bank vault. A heart monitor beeped, steady and reassuring; other than that, there was no sound in the room. Sydney's face was almost as pale as the bleached sheets beneath her, save for the mottling purple across her right cheekbone. When Jack leaned closer, he saw a cut just along the line of her eyebrow, stitches blending into the brown.

Stupid, at a moment like this, to be glad she wouldn't have that scar.

"Sydney? It's me." He touched her hand gently. She probably could not hear his words, but he spoke anyway. "You're going to be all right."

Against his expectations, Sydney stirred, closing two fingers weakly around his hand. "Dad?"

"Shhh, sweetheart. You're in the hospital. You'll be able to come home in a few days."

She swallowed hard. Her lashes fluttered, as though she considered opening her eyes before realizing she didn't have the strength. The crack in her voice pierced his reserve and made him grateful she couldn't see. "Where's Vaughn?"

"Vaughn's fine. He won't even have to spend the night here." Jack blinked hard, then brushed his thumb back and forth along her palm, where he knew it wouldn't hurt her to be touched. "You both made it out. You'll both be okay."

"No – no, not Vaughn." Was she delirious? Unable to understand him? But then Sydney finally opened her eyes, and the clarity Jack saw there was startling. "He's not Vaughn. He is – but – Vaughn's not Vaughn – there was something bad –"

"Bad?"

"He said he wasn't Vaughn -- and he was saying something else – going to say something, I don't remember – and then everything just stops –"

She doesn't know? Jack's incredulity quickly turned to rage – but that was something to settle with Vaughn, and soon. He focused again on his daughter, trembling in her hospital bed. Days ago, he had seen her fighting, running, at the height of her youth and strength. Although he did not need this to teach him about quick reversals of fate, Jack still found himself unable to accept Sydney's sudden diminishment into a broken thing. "I'll talk to Vaughn immediately. Until then, you shouldn't worry. We'll resolve all of this in the morning. You'll feel better then."

"Am I dreaming?" Sydney's gaze was already dimming, and Jack suspected the automatic morphine drip in her IV had just delivered another dose. "It feels like I should be dreaming."

"Go to sleep. It's okay."

Sydney tightened her fingers around Jack's, trying feebly to hold his hand. Her grip slackened almost instantly as she fell back to sleep, but Jack remained for several breaths, unwilling to break their fragile connection.

But then his daughter's words took their proper form in Jack's mind: a command. Talk to Vaughn.

Anger began driving his steps forward, from Sydney's bedside, down the corridor, the tread of his shoes on the linoleum getting heavier and faster. It was outrageous – worse than outrageous – that Sydney didn't know. Jack had spoken to Vaughn about this matter months ago, and Sydney's behavior during the past few months had seemed to confirm that she'd learned the truth, even if she'd chosen not to share it with her father. When Vaughn had come to Jack for permission to marry Sydney last week, Jack had planned on asking Vaughn about this issue point-blank – and bringing it up as the significant deceit it was – but then he had simply given his blessing, blindly, like a fool.

How was it possible that he'd given Michael Vaughn too much credit?

Jack stormed into the room where Vaughn was – to discover that it was only the room where Vaughn had been. It sat empty. The paper across the examination table had already been replaced.

"Nurse!" Jack shouted. Even in the din of the emergency room, people turned to gape at him. "Someone is going to update me on Michael Vaughn, immediately."

A young woman in lavender scrubs unwillingly assumed the duty, inching closer to Jack as though she thought he might strike. "Sir, Mr. Vaughn checked himself out."

"In his condition?"

"We advised him not to, but, sir, we can't keep patients against their will –"

"Find him. He can't have gotten farther than the parking lot."

She stared. "We can't do that!"

Jack opened his mouth to argue, then realized that this debate was an unwise use of his time. He was the best person on the premises to find Vaughn, and that was precisely what he was going to do.

But at that moment, Sydney's doctor appeared at his shoulder. "Mr. Bristow, we're going to move your daughter into her private room now. I thought you might want to go with her."

Go after Vaughn. Stay with Sydney. When framed like that, Jack's choice was clear. "I would. Thank you."

Vaughn was no doubt slinking away to become better acquainted with his guilt, and Jack had other resources. For now, his place was with his daughter.

As he turned back toward Sydney's room, he pulled out his cell phone and hit the few keys that would connect him with APO. "Issue an division-wide alert. All available agents are to help locate Michael Vaughn, immediately. Last known location –"

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

Hayden Chase folded her arms. "You are – once again, despite everything – a free man. But before you waltz out of here, we have to get a few things settled."

Sloane held out his hands, offering her his silence. She considered him through narrowed eyes, her gaze razor-sharp as it crisscrossed his face and his cell. The events in Sovogda felt as though they had taken place years ago, not within the past two weeks; Chase's transformation from his colleague to his jailer seemed complete.

But she said, "Based on the testimony of Sydney and Jack Bristow, I'm prepared to accept your account that you were acting undercover in Sevogda. Your failure to inform anyone at APO of your plans –"

"Who among them would have believed me? Not Sydney. Not even Jack." Not even Nadia, he thought, but it was too painful to say her name aloud.

"Be that as it may, your behavior constitutes a serious deviation from any acceptable protocol." Chase arched her eyebrows; she had a fascinating face, all planes and angles, though Sloane did not labor under the delusion that she would appreciate being told so. "We have no cause to prosecute you, but that doesn't mean you're the right person to run APO. Given the many times you've violated your agreement to steer clear of all things Rambaldi, I think we're justified in handing over control of this task force over to someone else."

"Jack Bristow." Sloane could accept that. He'd believed the truth would prevail in the end, but all the same, he was relieved. The lowering of his rank was an annoyance, no more.

"Probably. But we'll make that decision when APO returns to active status."

He rose from his bunk, confused and disquieted by her words. Sloane disliked being out of the loop; in any other circumstances, he was able to avoid it, but not here. "The entire division has been removed from duty? May I ask why?"

Chase gestured to one of the nearby guards to unlock Sloane's cell. He took his first steps into freedom – into vindication – almost too distracted to notice, given what she began telling him. "You know that Marcus just got out of the hospital yesterday, and Nadia Santos –" Her voice gentled. "Well, we don't know when she can return to duty. And earlier today, Sydney Bristow and Michael Vaughn were in a car accident. Doesn't sound like anything too serious, but they're not on active status either."

"Have you spoken to them?" A car accident, Sloane thought, half in wonder. He and Jack had guarded Sydney against murder, kidnapping, even fate itself. But the mundane world could still drag any of them down in an instant. If it were mundane – "Are you certain it was an accident?"

She shot him a look. "We haven't investigated yet. Police reports sound like a standard drunk-driving incident; found the other driver dead across the hood of his SUV. I spoke to Agent Vaughn briefly a couple hours after the accident, just before Jack got there; the man sounded rattled, but he assured me everything was on the up-and-up."

"And Jack is with Sydney." The disorganized shards of the world once again began to form a pattern, make sense.

"Given that the only APO field-rated agents available for duty are Eric Weiss and Marshall Flinkman – and Flinkman's only field-rated because we pushed the paperwork through for that Havana op – it makes more sense to rate the division inactive for the time being. Don't worry; we'll keep you busy. Plenty of research you guys can do for us." As they reached the release desk, Sloane absently signed the forms pushed in front of him. Chase picked up the cardboard box of Sloane's belongings, mostly the clothes he'd worn in Sovogda. He wondered if Nadia's blood strained any of them. "We've got a car waiting for you out front. I told the driver you'd want to go to APO's medical facility first, home after that. Did I get it right?"

"Yes. Yes, you did." For the first time, Sloane felt grateful; her gesture was genuinely thoughtful. The rest of this was only what he deserved.

**

APO's offices were almost silent – more so than they had been since Sloane first walked through them a year ago, approving them for his new division. A few analysts worked at their desks, but no sense of urgency drove them on. They straightened up as he walked past; if any of them noticed that he was still wearing prison fatigues, they were all professional enough to ignore the fact.

Sloane set his box of clothes on his desk – would Jack insist upon switching offices? – and turned to see a friendly face.

"Hey, Mr. Sloane. Welcome back!" Marshall waved, as though he were trying to get Sloane's attention from a very great distance. "Just wanted to say, you know, we're all thinking about Nadia, and I'm sure she's gonna pull through just fine –"

"I'd prefer not to discuss it. Your good wishes are appreciated."

Sloane knew he did not sound as though he appreciated them; Marshall blanched, but continued to blunder on. "And, well, sorry for, you know, suspecting you and stuff, even though drugging Sydney did kinda look bad – but, hey, you're Sloane, you've always got something up those sleeves of yours. Some super-tricky sleeves you've got there."

"Thank you, Marshall." In Sloane's experience, it was best to assume the burden of ensuring that all conversations with Marshall were as brief as possible; Marshall himself would never help. "You were right to be cautious. I presume you've been informed of APO's inactive status?"

"Yep, got the memo. Of course, I'm still coming to work – using the time to upgrade our protections, work on a few extra-special gizmos I've been meaning to try out for a while. But I might take a couple days off next week, if you think that's okay. Maybe take Carrie and Mitchell to the beach."

Sloane wondered if he even had the authority to approve something as minor as this, then decided he didn't care. He imagined being a father at the beach with his small child, surrounded by laughter and sunshine. Even the brief joy of fatherhood he'd been able to know had lacked such simple pleasures. "That will be fine."

"Fantabulous." Marshall clapped his hands together gleefully. "Don't nobody's sandcastles outclass Flinkman's sandcastles, oh no."

He wandered off, leaving Sloane to the terrible duty that awaited him.

APO's medical facilities were located two floors above the main operations center. Sloane had last come here months ago, when Nadia had been shot for the first time. Anna Espinosa meant to use Nadia merely as a pawn in Rambaldi's game; Sloane treasured Nadia's life more dearly than his own. But Anna had only injured Nadia. It had fallen to Sloane to kill her.

As he opened the door to Nadia's room, he saw her lying there, as peaceful as she might have been during a nap. To Sloane's surprise, she was not alone.

"Mr. Sloane. Hi." Eric Weiss seemed to have surfaced from a very great depth in order to speak to Sloane, or anyone. He wore sweatpants and a T-shirt and sat in the chair nearest Nadia's bedside. A nest of empty soda cans, vending-machine food wrappers and sports magazines testified that he'd spent the entire day with Nadia. "Chase said they were letting you out today. Glad to hear it."

"Tell me how she is." Sloane knew the ugly truth, but now – faced with the evidence of his act, with the still-breathing shell of his only child – he thought he deserved to have to listen.

"Better, actually. Well, kinda." Weiss stroked Nadia's dark, shining hair away from her face. It was clean and even neat; Sloane wondered if her lovesick boyfriend was brushing it for her. "Those weird lines across her skin? See, they're gone. Totally faded out over the last couple of days. And when the doctor checked her eyes this morning, they were back to normal."

It was sad to see how much hope Weiss had attached to such trivia. "But she's still under sedation, isn't she?"

"No, they stopped that yesterday. With the rest of the Rambaldi junk wearing off, they thought – you know, maybe –" Sighing, Weiss sank back into his chair. "I've been here almost every second. Talking to her, keeping her company, reading articles to her – turns out she's not so interested in the NHL negotiations, I guess." The feeble joke was accompanied with a grimace, rather than a smile. "The doctors don't know why Nadia's not regaining consciousness. She's not in a coma, they say. She just – won't wake up."

It would be kinder to explain the truth to Weiss, but Sloane could not bring himself to do it. Nadia's hair was soft beneath his palm. Once again, Sloane considered the terrible price of destiny and wished there had been some other way – any other way – to pay it.

And yet, there was a kind of justice here – not for poor Nadia, but for her father, whose many crimes would never truly disappear. For decades, Sloane had lived with one single-minded purpose: to see that Rambaldi's prophecies would come true. It did not escape him that, by destroying his own daughter, he had fulfilled Rambaldi's words at last.

A sharp rap on the door jerked them both around; Hayden Chase stood in the doorway, her expression severe. Sloane regarded her coolly. "Have I violated the terms of our agreement already?"

"You're not the one I'm here for. Agent Weiss, have you spoken to Agent Vaughn in the past three hours?"

"Since the wreck?" Clearly confused, Weiss got slowly to his feet. "No. He called me before they left yesterday morning, but nothing after that. Jack called me about the accident, and then I tried Vaughn's cell, but no answer. Figured it got smashed."

Chase gestured him closer to her. "Come out here and convince me you're telling the truth. Because Agent Vaughn appears to chosen a very mysterious time to disappear."

**

**Stockholm, Sweden**

 

The concierge brought the day's deliveries to the door, as usual. After two weeks, the staff of the Hotel Birgerjarl knew only that the guest in room 220 was beautiful, that she was quiet, that she almost never left her suite and that she apparently liked to shop.

Irina, swaddled in one of the hotel bathrobes, opened her latest acquisitions: a short blonde wig that would help her get through airport security, some blue jeans for comfort's sake and, best of all, the long-awaited laptop. Thus far, she'd had to do all of her online work in a handful of hurried sessions at internet cafes in Russia and Sweden; once she had this running and had created the necessary security protocols, it would be possible to do far more, and with much less risk.

For once, Irina felt as though she'd had enough of risk to last her a while.

Although she had stayed in many hotels during her life, Irina had rarely relished the ordinary comforts of the experience: clean sheets, room service, as much hot water as she could want. She understood that it was a reaction to her imprisonment by Elena, who had sometimes withheld baths and meals -- not as punishment, because she had more brutal means for that, but merely to show Irina her place --

_("You have two graves now, Irina." Elena had combed her long, red nails through Irina's dirty hair between the electric shocks. Leather straps cut into her wrists, her ankles, her waist. "One in Russia, one in America. And nobody mourns you at either one." Those red nails had moved from her hair toward the board, toward the dial that upped the voltage, and Irina had begun to shake. "Tell me, where do you want your third grave to be?")_

No. No use in thinking of it. Elena was dead. Irina couldn't possibly improve on that situation, least of all by brooding upon a now-irrelevant past.

As she set about working with her laptop, Irina propped it beside her on the bed, where she leaned against the headboard. Her hair was still towel-wrapped from her second shower of the morning. Despite her focus on the task at hand, Irina remained aware of the simple pleasures of physical comfort, safety and rest. Here she had been able to recover. Here, she could grieve for Nadia. She'd almost forgotten what sanctuary felt like.

_Perhaps I should retire,_ she thought. It was a joke for herself – and yet, not wholly a joke.

The vague idea of a house in the woods somewhere – someplace with snow – had almost taken shape in Irina's mind when the laptop was finally secured for use. Instantly she focused anew, attacking the most vital tasks first. Money was moved from a Swiss account into one she could access more easily; she'd checked into the hotel using a credit card number she'd hacked, but Irina did not intend to leave a trail through such clumsy stealing if it could be avoided. She arranged for better fake ID papers to be sent to her overnight, then bought airline tickets to Santiago for next week. As much as she was enjoying her idyll here, her freedom relied upon remaining on the move for a while.

Irina accessed her various email accounts, finding them mostly empty; accounts of her death had been widely exaggerated, but they'd certainly made the rounds. She hesitated briefly before checking the one she'd used only to talk to Jack. It would not be impossible for him to have sent something to her after Sevogda –

_For what? _ Irina told herself._ To tell you that Sydney is safe? You know that. That Nadia has died? She was dead in all but body when you left her two weeks ago. _

No, it was likely there would be no news. And yet, Jack might have sent something to her.

When she'd left her life as Laura Bristow, Irina had known that her story with Jack was not over. She could little have guessed the twists and turns it had taken since – but now, for the first time, they could truly let go, walk away. Jack had appeased his anger, and though the thought of it would never fail to nauseate Irina, she knew his long-festering rage at his betrayal was finally spent. For herself, she had done more than her share of penance, gained what she needed for her daughters, and learned that forgiveness could be as painful to give as to receive.

Their relationship could end now, at last. It would be best for them both never to speak again, unless their daughter's safety depended upon it. He had to know this too.

Irina checked the account anyway. Jack had sent her email.

She was torn between anticipation and chagrin until she opened the note and saw that this was just the kind of communication that would always be necessary:

SYDNEY AND VAUGHN WERE IN A CAR ACCIDENT. POSSIBLY NOT AN ACCIDENT, AS AUTOPSY REVEALS THE OTHER 'DRIVER' HAD BEEN DEAD FOR MORE THAN A DAY BEFORE BODY RETRIEVED FROM WRECKAGE. SYDNEY IS INJURED BUT OK. VAUGHN IS MISSING – RAN AWAY. NO EXPLANATION, NO LEADS. DO YOU KNOW WHERE HE COULD BE? ANY INTEL HELPFUL.

Jack had not dressed this note up with any hint of the personal, but he did not need to; given her tenuous connections to Vaughn, there was no need for him to have contacted Irina at all, save to share word of their daughter's safety and simply to include Irina in their lives. He would not expect a substantive answer.

And yet, Irina thought she might have one to give.

She replied: _I don't know where Vaughn might have gone. But I suspect I know why he left. _

 

**San Simeon, California**

 

"Vaughn left a lot of tracks," said the other agent, a guy Weiss hardly knew, as he steered their car from the train station. "Sloppy."

"It's not sloppy," Weiss retorted. Was it weird to defend his friend when his friend was AWOL? No, definitely not. "The guy had a head injury, among other things. He was barely in shape to get out of the hospital, and he's obviously not thinking straight. You don't have a clean getaway, not like that."

"For a guy in no shape to make a getaway, he's covered a lot of ground."

Weiss had to admit that much was true.

The first tracks of the trail had been clear: a withdrawal from an ATM machine at a convenience store a couple blocks from the hospital. A cabbie who'd taken a bloodied passenger to the train station. Vaughn, concussed or not, had at least had the good sense to pay for his ticket in cash, and he'd probably grabbed himself some clothes at a nearby shop to replace the bloodstained ones.

Still, only a few trains left the station within an hour of Vaughn's departure – and Jack's team had gotten there an hour later and scoured the place. If Weiss had been doing the running, he'd have gone to the train station and then headed out of town some other way: a simple feint that might buy him a few hours. But Vaughn probably wasn't in his right mind; besides, he was injured and he'd need to rest.

Others had followed the other three possible trains. Weiss had gone after the one to San Simeon.

Probably it was as random a choice as any other, but he couldn't help remembering an idle joke Vaughn had made about this place after they caught a few minutes of "Citizen Kane" on cable one time. "Xanadu is just up the coast," Vaughn had laughed. They'd been drinking beers on Weiss' couch, unwinding, barely paying any attention to the classic movie on the TV screen. Sometimes, after a tough few days in the field, nothing was more important than hanging out with your buddy. "We gotta see that someday, right, Weiss? You can't pass up a trip to Xanadu."

Was it disloyal, using a shared joke against Vaughn? Weiss decided it wasn't. The only reason Vaughn had taken off in the first place was a head injury; probably the guy was on one hell of a guilt trip because of Syd, and he wasn't thinking straight. Hell, it was dangerous for him; walking around dazed and clearly unwell, Vaughn was likely to get mugged. Weiss figured he was justified in doing pretty much whatever it took to get his friend back – to save him from himself.

This crazy run was the product of guilt for hurting Syd and a blow to the noggin. Weiss was worried about Vaughn on one level, but he couldn't help thinking that, once it was all over and Vaughn was feeling better again, they should NEVER let him live this down.

_Vaughn, buddy, you owe me for this one_, Weiss thought as they drove up the winding hills, seeking out the next hotel. _ When Nadia got into trouble, I wasn't there to help her. So I'd at least like to be there when she wakes up. Least I can do. What's with everybody I love getting into trouble on the same day? _

As their car crested another hill, Weiss saw cars – rows and rows of them, lined up on the lot. "Pull in here."

"Jiffy Rentals – don't know that chain."

"Exactly," Weiss said. "They're small, which means they probably don't have a national tracking system. He'd figure – even if we realized he'd been here, we might not be able to trace him."

This kind of sound reasoning didn't exactly fit with the head-injury theory, but it might fit with the idea that Vaughn was taking the phrase "guilt trip" too literally.

It was markedly cooler in San Simeon than it had been in L.A.; the breeze coming in off the water was even wetter than usual, heralding rain. On a high peak in the distance, Weiss could just make out the white towers of Hearst Castle, the model for Kane's Xanadu. Maybe Vaughn was hanging out up there? Hell, after a good whack on the noggin, maybe he believes he IS Kane, Weiss thought. I'm gonna find him curled in a fetal position, muttering "Rosebud" over and over.

He walked into the rental car office and flashed his badge. Before Weiss could say a word, the girl behind the counter sighed. "What is it with the late-afternoon walk-ins?"

Weiss froze. "Guy with sandy hair? Tall, kinda beat-up, cuter than me?" She nodded. "When was he here?"

She pointed toward the lot. "He's – he's here now –"

Instantly, Weiss turned and ran into the lot, just in time to hear the other agent yelling, "Stay where you are! Agent Vaughn! Agent Vaughn!"

Then he heard the gunshot.

Weiss ducked – training demanded it – then pushed himself up enough to see Vaughn running toward a car at the edge of the lot. The other agent was crouched behind a sedan, weapon leveled at Vaughn. He yelled, "What the hell are you doing? Stop shooting atVaughn!"

The agent yelled, "He shot at me!"

Still running, Vaughn looked back over his shoulder; the shock of recognition was immediate. His face looked like a mockery of itself – bruised, stitched and bandaged – with eyes Weiss hardly recognized. He turned and pointed his gun dead at Weiss. A cold shiver of fear right in the core of his chest seemed to mark the bulls-eye. "Don't come after me. I don't want to have to – Weiss, don't."

"Vaughn, man, listen to me. You're not yourself. You're not thinking straight." Weiss wondered just how hard Vaughn's head had hit the dashboard. "This is Weiss. Eric Weiss. College roomie? Owes you $40 from the poker game last month? Never kill a guy while he owes you money. That's just bad economics."

As he made the joke, Weiss took one step forward. He didn't hear the next gunshot as much as the crash of the windshield in the car in front of him, shattering. He ducked again, and by the time he was off the ground again, Vaughn's car was squealing out of the lot.

The other agent was apparently unharmed, running toward their car, Weiss not far behind. "What the hell is this guy doing?" the agent yelled. "He tried to kill us!"

"Vaughn's a good shot! If he wanted us dead, we'd be dead." This sounded good when Weiss said it, but he was still in shock: Vaughn had shot at him. Shot to miss, sure – at least, probably shot to miss – but what the hell was going on?

He took the wheel, throwing the car into reverse – and a hard THWAP THWAP revealed the back tires were flat. As Weiss groaned, the agent yelled, "He slashed our tires!"

"We're on a car lot, okay? Get another car!"

But by the time they had, Vaughn was long gone. He contacted local law enforcement to put out an APB for the car in question, but Weiss had no doubt that Vaughn would ditch it for something else soon.

The entire way back to Los Angeles, Weiss tried to process what had just happened. Vaughn had a head injury, yeah – but he'd seemed clear-minded enough. And yet he was stealing, running away, shooting in the general vicinity of his best friend: not good.

Logically, the most believable explanation was that Vaughn had gone rogue. But even though Vaughn had gone rogue before, Weiss couldn't bring himself to believe it.

_No way would he leave Syd like that, when she's hurt and in the hospital. That's just – that's impossible. That's not the guy I know._

Still, Vaughn was gone.

Syd was out of action.

Sloane was a good guy after all.

Nadia hadn't woken up.

Weiss felt a little like someone had rearranged his whole life when he wasn't looking, and not for the better; he'd been rolling with the punches until Vaughn fired the gun, and now nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

He needed something to make sense again. Soon. Now.

Once he'd returned to L.A., Weiss decided to make a run by Vaughn's place. The agency would conduct a search sooner or later, but Weiss figured he could make that sooner. Besides, they had each other's spare keys. Of course, Weiss had never used Vaughn's; in fact, he hadn't even been to Vaughn's post-Lauren apartment since about two weeks after Vaughn moved in. Mostly, they'd socialized at Sydney and Nadia's. Weiss lived just a few doors down, so it was more convenient for everyone to hang out where the beautiful women lived. He'd always liked that part.

Not before tonight had it struck him as odd that he'd never once gone to Vaughn's place in all that time. Now – well, it did.

_You're being paranoid, _Weiss told himself as he rode the elevator to Vaughn's floor. _ If he'd asked you over, you would have told him to just come by your place anyway, right? You live near the beautiful women. Also, you have the big-screen TV for games. This is significant. _

But a few hours after Vaughn had shot at him, Weiss' defenses sounded weaker.

_Maybe he never liked this place. He had to pick it in a hurry, after his old house burned down. After he burned his old house down. Destroying absolutely everything in it. _

Like, say, evidence.

He pushed open the door, feeling oddly as if he should shout out to anybody who might be home. But the place was empty, of course. Not all that neat, though, with a lot of papers and books lying around –

Weiss squinted, then knelt on the ground beside one of the books. He'd studied the subject just enough to recognize the spidery, old-fashioned handwriting as Milo Rambaldi's.

Getting quickly to his feet, Weiss began flipping on every light in the apartment, taking in the disarray all around him. It looked as if Vaughn had gone through every book or paper he had on Rambaldi – and he had a hell of a lot more Rambaldi stuff than Weiss had ever dreamed – during the past few weeks, as if he were desperately looking for something. But what?

Weiss turned to Vaughn's bedroom next, expecting to find it neater – and then he stopped in his tracks.

Covering one wall, floor to ceiling, were pages and pages and pages, hundreds of them, of Rambaldi manuscripts. Thumbtacks pinned them in place, a vast map to a place Weiss couldn't imagine. The handwriting and designs formed a larger image: At the center of the wall, a near-complete Eye of Rambaldi peered back at Weiss, waiting.

Weiss slumped against the far wall. "Shit."

 

**Portland, Oregon**

 

Vaughn lay on the hotel bed, trying to ignore the sunlight filtering in through the beige curtains and pain in his shoulder and head. If he could just get a few minutes of sleep before this meeting – it felt like years since he'd been able to rest.

_Call her. Not now – she couldn't even take the call now – but someday soon, just let her know why you did this. Syd can't know the truth, not all of it, but she can at least know that you didn't –_

Didn't what? Lie to her? Abandon her? You did. Better get used to it.

Vaughn rolled onto the side that hurt less, then reconsidered and rolled to the side that hurt more. The discomfort was a distraction from what he'd just done to Sydney, everything he'd just lost. In some ways, the enormity of it hadn't yet hit him; he knew that he had left Syd forever, that the tasks he had to complete now would consume the rest of his probably brief life. And yet he still kept thinking stupid things like, _Eric's not going to believe this when I tell him. _

I'll be late to work tomorrow.

I wonder if Sydney has a bag of frozen vegetables in the freezer? They're better than ice packs, for a sprain.

He screwed his eyes shut and tried to concentrate on the here and now. The path he had chosen for himself would require care to navigate, if he didn't want to end up dead. Maybe, in the long run, he didn't mind if this quest killed him – but not yet. Not until his work was done.

The meeting tonight would tell Vaughn a lot about what he had to do, and whether he could ever hope to accomplish it.

Three months ago, he'd made contact with his source – Vaughn had no name for him yet, by mutual consent. The source didn't know precisely whom he was dealing with either because it was safer that way. The basics were all that mattered: They shared certain views and were willing to undertake similar tasks, if needed. After Sevogda, Vaughn had known they would have to team up eventually; he just hadn't dreamed it would be so soon.

Vaughn opened his eyes. His focus, perhaps skewed by the painkillers he'd taken, took a while to sharpen the painting on the hotel room wall from colors into shapes: a sailing ship, being tossed on a stormy sea. Although clouds and waves and ship were all completely still, of course, Vaughn felt a strange rush of nausea – almost like seasickness.

The water wasn't real. The pitching and swaying of the world around him wasn't real. Losing Syd – that couldn't be real, it couldn't be, none of this.

_("I swear, at least half of the hotel rooms in America have a picture of a sailing ship on the wall," Sydney had said, shimmying into her disguise for an op in Chicago. "Why sailing ships? Why not dogs playing poker?" _

"Sailing ships are traveling from one place to another," Vaughn had told her, simultaneously double-checking his comm. unit and admiring the way her red spandex dress hugged her body. "They appeal to travelers."

"Still, why just ships? They should get some paintings of trains, or RVs, or roller skates." She had the most amazing grin. "We could go into business. Alternative hotel-room décor."

"Our retirement plans. Selling pictures of guys on roller skates to motels worldwide." Vaughn had laughed, less from the joke than from the unexpected thrill of imagining growing old by Sydney's side --)

Suck it up, he thought. It was something his father used to say after Vaughn scraped his knee sliding into third base or had the breath knocked out of him in a football game. Suck it up and go.

Always pushing him on. Always Dad, always coming back to him, no matter what.

**

After a few fitful hours of discomfort and half-sleep, Vaughn pulled himself together to make the meet. He didn't even know if his source had gotten the email message he'd hurriedly sent from an internet café; if not, Vaughn would go it alone. By now, APO was on alert that he was missing, and even if Jack and Sydney had not discussed the small slivers of the truth they knew, they certainly realized that something was deeply wrong. Vaughn assumed that his laptop was already getting a shakedown from Marshall, which meant nothing – no email account, or anything – could be considered safe again.

Nothing he had known before today – save the source – would ever be a part of his life from now on.

At dusk, he strolled along the waterfront, watching the hotel windows begin to burn brightly as the sunshine deepened into night. Vaughn tried not to limp on his left foot, or to too obviously hold his shoulder stiff. He had advertised enough weakness just by calling for this meeting.

By the time forty-five minutes had passed, Vaughn was beginning to believe that his message had gone unread – but then he saw the signal, just around the corner of a dock pylon. The lighter flashed, twice, three times; then the cigarette dropped to the ground and was mashed out by a boot.

The silhouetted foot was the first Vaughn had ever seen of the source.

He walked closer, whistling a bit of Tchaikovsky; Vaughn had suggested this signal himself, and he hoped the source was familiar with the tune. Apparently so; at least, he didn't hear anybody walking away. The cut on his tongue hurt when he whistled.

Finally, he came within a few steps of the pylon. The source was standing on the other side; they remained invisible to each other, but one more step would do it. Shakily, Vaughn said, "I guess we've waited a long time for this." He took the last step.

And stared.

"Believe me," said Julian Sark, "I'm as appalled as you are."


	2. Chapter 2

**Santa Barbara, California**

 

Just one inch more, just one more, she could do it, she could do it –

Sydney breathed out and fell back against the pillows her father had propped behind her; it was the first time she had been able to sit up by herself since the accident. A few hours ago, the morphine drip had been taken out, and the haze that had surrounded her for days was dissipating at last. Her body was merely a collection of different kinds of pain, from the stabbing agony in her side to the dull ache in her hand where the IV had been jabbed in too hard.

She welcomed it. In the line of duty, she had endured far worse – and as the morphine faded, her mind became sharp.

"You've barely touched your breakfast." Her father peered down at the bland oatmeal on her tray with suspicion. He wore the sort of clothing Sydney rarely saw him in: rumpled slacks and a soft shirt that looked too comfortable to be his. For the past few days, he had been at the hospital with her more often than not, quiet and watchful. "I could bring in something else for you, if you wanted."

"It's not allowed. You know that."

"I smuggled nuclear launch codes out of China. I think I could slip some pancakes past the orderlies."

For the first time in what felt like forever, Sydney smiled. The corners of Jack's mouth lifted, just a little, probably more because of her response than his joke. Sydney's resolve wavered for a moment – this was the first remotely pleasant experience she'd had since the wreck. But then she said, "Dad, we need to talk about Vaughn."

Jack stiffened. "Sweetheart, I've told you –"

"You've only told me that you're looking, and you haven't found him. And that –" Sydney's voice tightened around the words, but she swallowed and kept on. "—that you're certain he went underground of his own volition."

"Yes. Vaughn's better at this than I would have thought." Sydney was in no mood for her father's begrudging praise of Vaughn. Perhaps Jack saw that in her face, because he stepped closer and put his hand on her shoulder, the touch almost imperceptible through her pain. "I understand your concern, but we can talk about this later, when you're feeling better."

"Better? Dad, how am I supposed to feel better when Vaughn's – he's just out there, somewhere –"

Dizziness overtook her, and she let her head fall back against the pillows. Within seconds, her father was holding a damp washcloth against her forehead, cool and soft. Water trickled into her hairline, and the shiver helped her find clarity again. Jack's voice was more soothing than his words. "Not yet, Sydney. Rest first. Get your strength back."

"I can't rest. Not like this." Sydney opened her eyes, so that he had to look at her. "This last week – not knowing what's happening to him, not being awake enough to talk about it – that's been worse than anything else. Don't make me wait any longer. That's not what I need now."

From the heaviness when he breathed out, she knew that he had been dreading this. "I'm not certain of much. But I can try to work through some of it with you." Her father sat on the edge of her bed, obviously more at ease talking tactics than dealing with her fear. Sydney did not resent it; that was the way he was. "And – though I know this does little good now, I'm sorry I didn't go after Vaughn myself, the night after the wreck. I thought he was merely upset. I didn't anticipate that he would do anything like this."

"It's all right. I didn't either." Her father sat quietly, waiting for her to lead the conversation. She began at the beginning. "When I woke up after the crash, I told you – at least, I think I told you, it's all kind of blurry – about what Vaughn was saying to me just before we crashed."

"Yes, you told me, or you tried to."

Sydney's eyes narrowed. Her father was already being cautious; what had he learned? "I keep going over and over it in my mind, trying to make sense of it. I thought – maybe when I felt better, after I got off the morphine – but no matter what, it's not going to make sense. Dad, he said his name wasn't even Michael Vaughn."

They looked at each other, and in that moment, Sydney realized what his expression meant.

"Oh, my God. You've known, haven't you?"

"Sydney –"

"You knew before the wreck." She wanted to push herself away from him, but her body hurt just from breathing hard. She wanted to slap him, but the IV tethered her hand with pain more surely than any handcuffs. "You've been lying –"

"Sydney, listen to me. I thought you knew. I thought you had known for some time now."

"Knew? Knew what?"

"I'll tell you what information I have, but you have to promise –"

"I have to promise? You've kept this secret from me for – I don't know how long – I don't have to promise anyth –"

"It wasn't my secret to tell." Her father's voice was hard, though he kept dabbing the washcloth against her forehead with care, his gesture part of some other conversation altogether. "Hear me out. You need the facts before you can make any kind of judgment."

Sydney gulped in a deep breath to steady herself. In one sense, she knew that she was angry with her father mostly because he was there and Vaughn wasn't. But the rest – she'd make up her mind when she knew the truth. "Start talking."

"This began almost forty years ago," Jack said. "With Bill Vaughn."

"If Michael's father was Bill Vaughn, then how –"

"The name 'Bill Vaughn' was a cover for an East German agent who successfully infiltrated the CIA before you were born. His real name was Wilhelm Diestler. His son – born in France two years before the undercover assignment began – was named Matthias. The entire family took on cover identities when 'Bill Vaughn' joined the CIA. To the best of my knowledge, Michael Vaughn did not learn his real name, or his father's, until approximately a year ago."

Sydney sank back against her pillows, breathing slow and deep, calming herself to take it all in. What was most surprising about it was that it wasn't surprising; it answered questions she should have asked long ago about the man Vaughn remembered as a good, loving father – and was somehow the same man who had stolen Nadia from her mother. "You said he was East German, but there was more to it, wasn't there? He was a Rambaldi follower."

"Yes. We didn't learn that until years later – when Thomas Brill told Vaughn, actually." Jack hesitated. "Last year, Sloane and I knew that other Rambaldi followers were likely to try manipulating Vaughn with information about his father – namely, his father's old notebooks. We hunted down and destroyed as many as we could, but we didn't get them all."

"I know." Sydney remembered Vaughn's desperate hope as they'd gone through the yellowing pages together, and his disillusionment as the trail had gone cold.

"When Weiss searched Vaughn's apartment after his disappearance, he found more of those notebooks, and other Rambaldi materials besides. A considerable amount, actually."

Her stomach dropped, a sudden, queasy feeling that reminded Sydney of a bad amusement-park ride. She ignored the sensation. "That's nothing. It's just research he was doing on his dad."

Her father's eyes narrowed. "How can you be certain?"

"Because I know Vaughn." She didn't intend to even think about that for one second long. "What about Vaughn's mom? Was she mixed up in all this?" Mrs. Vaughn had died during Sydney's two lost years, but from everything Vaughn had said about her, it seemed impossible that she could be anything but a normal wife and mother.

Jack shrugged, obviously considering this irrelevant. "She was never an active agent, more her husband's assistant. When his body was discovered, she cooperated fully; she was the one who gave us the names, in the end, along with other significant intel. In return, she was pardoned."

_Matthias Diestler._ She tried it out in her mind. If she had heard that in Vaughn's voice, Sydney thought, it wouldn't have been unnerving at all. The first knowledge steadied her, and she met Jack's eyes evenly. "Tell me exactly what you knew, and when you knew it."

He didn't hesitate. "I learned about Bill Vaughn's real identity in 1983, when his body was found. I never told Vaughn because I didn't think the knowledge could have any positive effect. It didn't matter."

After a moment's consideration, Sydney decided she believed him. It would be just like her father to assume that someone's best interests were best served by a tactful lie. "But a year ago, something changed."

"As you remember, after Vaughn learned the truth about Lauren – he and I worked together to further his pursuit of her."

"And her murder." Lauren had taken six shots before she finally fell. Sydney could still hear every one of them, still see the resolve in Vaughn's eyes as he fired. Despite her father's insistence that only this would bring Vaughn peace, the murder had haunted him ever since. Although Sydney knew Vaughn's love for Lauren had long died by that point, she believed that he couldn't have gone through with it if Sydney's own life hadn't been on the line. She loved him for many reasons – but that one too, the sacrifice of the gentlest part of himself to save her life. "That's when he talked to Thomas Brill and learned that his father followed Rambaldi. Vaughn told me about the prophecy – about me and Nadia – but that wasn't all he learned, was it? He learned about his real name, and he told you."

"Vaughn asked to tell you himself, when the time was right. I left that to his discretion." Jack's lips pressed into a pale line. "Obviously, I was in error."

"You said that you thought I knew. Dad – did Vaughn – he didn't lie to you, did he?"

Her father shook his head, and Sydney realized that she was beginning to relax. Maybe it wasn't all that bad. Maybe it would all make sense, and come out right in the end. "I asked him a few times if he had shared that information with you, particularly after we all joined APO. He said he was waiting until the time was right. But when the two of you orchestrated his rogue status to follow up on Bill Vaughn's journals – it was logical to conclude that you had the whole story."

Sydney's hands felt clammy, and she dropped her gaze, unwilling to face her father. "You knew about that? When did you find out that—"

"I always knew you were lying to me. I had to insinuate myself into your op in order to make sure nobody else accompanied you and reported you." He raised one eyebrow. "If you need pointers on layering different potential motives into a cover story –"

"You guessed. You didn't know."

"Marshall would have known." The rebuke stung, and perhaps Jack realized it. He lifted away the washcloth and brushed back her damp hair, the kind of gentle touch she so rarely won from him. "I never pressed Vaughn for answers after that. I should have."

It was as much of an apology as she would get, apparently. But already Sydney was thinking ahead – moving on to tactics, rather than sympathy. "What else is there?"

The hesitation lasted too long. "I'm not sure anything else is relevant."

So, her father had one more secret – connected to this, but probably not to Vaughn's disappearance. Was it worth pressing him? Sydney tried the most obvious question. "If that's all there was, why would Vaughn leave? What you've told me isn't even about him, just his father. It's not a reason for him to just – vanish."

Jack sighed. "No. Obviously, there are other levels to this I'm not aware of." Other levels. He spoke so calmly – as though he were analyzing one of his game-theory scenarios, instead of talking about people made of flesh and blood. "Vaughn apparently had secrets neither of us knew."

Sydney could feel her engagement ring against her breastbone; one of the nurses had strung it on a shoelace for her. She wrapped her fingers around it, as though it were a talisman. Whatever it was that Vaughn thought she couldn't face in his past – she would prove him wrong.

"I'm going to find out the whole story." Sydney made the promise not to her father but to herself. "I have to."

Jack said only, "I'll help, if you want."

Secrets past the Chinese border, pancakes past the orderlies. Sometimes even her father was made of flesh and blood. Sydney gave him a crooked little smile. "Thanks."

 

**Hong Kong, China**

 

"Of all the fates I might have envisioned for myself," Sark said, "none remotely resembled playing nursemaid to you."

"Are you going to cut the stitches or not?"

"Impatience, Mr. Vaughn. Or should I say, Mr. Diestler? Whatever you prefer."

Snip, snip, snip. The tugs of the stitches against his still-angry skin made Vaughn wince, but he kept himself as still as possible while Sark worked. "Vaughn's fine."

"You always did like to stick with what was familiar. Predictable. Or so Lauren said." Vaughn would have punched the teeth out of Sark's grin if Sark hadn't been digging sharp metal into his open wound at that very moment. As it was, he took another opportunity to curse the fate that had brought them together.

But as much as Vaughn loathed Julian Sark, he had to admit that so far the guy had kept his half of the bargain. Despite his frequent complaints and superior attitude, Sark had steered Vaughn out of the country and, for the two weeks since, had even helped him get medicine, rewrap his sprained ankle, and now remove stitches. A suite of rooms in a hotel pricey even by Hong Kong standards had been their hideout; Vaughn was more experienced in secrecy than luxury, but had to admit their setting worked well for both. Their planning had been simple and productive. To Vaughn's surprise, once you were on the same page with Sark, he made things easy.

Then Sark tugged the last thread too hard, and Vaughn breathed in sharply through his teeth. Not that easy.

Vaughn examined his reflection in the mirror; an ugly red line now creased his brow, and it looked like the kind of cut that would never fully heal. He wasn't a vain man, but identifying marks were a drawback in his profession.

"Eventually you'll want a plastic surgeon for that," Sark said, eerily echoing Vaughn's thoughts. "Rather grisly, as it stands."

"It doesn't matter. Where we're going, we'll be wearing masks."

Sark took a few steps to the side, until he stood in front of one of the leather armchairs across from the bed. The Hong Kong skyline at twilight sparkled before them, as though they were floating in space. "You think you're ready for this, then?"

"I can walk. I can run. My endurance might not be back up to par, but if this doesn't end quickly, it ends with us dead. So I don't think endurance matters all that much."

"If your slowness results in our arrest – well. Suffice it to say that I disagree." Sark tilted his head, considering Vaughn as though he were a specimen. "If you want to go into action – or, more to point, if you want to go into action with me – you will first have to prove yourself."

Vaughn sighed. "And how do you –"

He ducked even as his conscious mind was processing the thoughts fist, punch, face. Sark jerked back, his elbow catching Vaughn against the neck – a glancing half-blow that still sent him staggering to the floor.

"Sloppy." Sark took one step toward Vaughn, towering over him with a sneer. "Perhaps you should come back in a few months, Mr. Vaughn."

Vaughn shook his head sadly, as if about to speak, which gave him the chance to catch Sark off-guard by landing a kick to the knee. Sark stumbled, but didn't fall; didn't matter, because Vaughn was on his feet again. His head whirled, and he could feel every fire-hot millimeter of the cut at his scalp. Still, if Sark wanted a fight, Vaughn could give him one.

Like he'd pass up his last opportunity to beat the crap out of Julian Sark.

They stood opposite each other, already breathing hard, their reflections in the hotel-room window pale shadows spread out across the Hong Kong skyline. Vaughn could feel every tear and break of his skin, every bruised bone, as he slipped into fighting stance, balanced on the balls of his feet, his hands curled. "I should've known you only wanted to set me up, Sark."

"If I'd wanted you dead, I could have smothered you with a pillow on that first night." Sark had a bloodless smile. "Lauren used to think about doing that, you know."

"Not really a surprise." Vaughn knew he couldn't fight long, so he began designing a single blow that would do maximum damage. The windpipe? Sark would guard that better. Maybe a feint and a killing kick to the spleen – rupture that, and Sark wouldn't go anywhere else tonight, or for the rest of his short life. "Something we had common, actually. I used to think about doing that to her, too."

"After you knew. So very, very late in the game. What a fool you must have felt. Tell me, do you think Sydney feels that way now?"

Vaughn lashed out – not thinking, not planning, just furious. It was the dumbest thing he could have done, completely unprofessional, and yet because of that it apparently was exactly what Sark wasn't expecting. Vaughn's hand crunched into Sark's jaw, hard enough that they both yelled out. Sark staggered backward, and Vaughn sank onto the bed, gripping his hand.

"Broken?" Sark mumbled.

"No. You?"

"No." Taking up a napkin, Sark tidily spat blood in it, then dabbed the corners of his mouth. "Have you proved your point?"

"Yeah. And disproved yours. So can we stop this macho bullshit?"

"Very well, then. You're physically ready. That doesn't mean you're actually ready." Sark pursed his lips, as though he had just sampled a wine not to his liking. "You are crossing a line, Mr. Vaughn. A line that you cannot return from, ever again. I'm not certain you appreciate that."

"Do you think I'm going to betray you?"

"Curiously, no. I can't say that I trust you, but I trust your motives are the same as mine. I simply think that, when it comes time to follow in Elena's footsteps, your training will kick in." Once more, Sark spat blood, then worked his jaw around experimentally. "The Boy Scout will emerge, and the believer will disappear. Your career, Sydney Bristow, all of it – I think it ties you down still. That it always will."

Vaughn's head hurt, and not only because of the fight. He wanted nothing so much as to lie down on the bed of his hotel room, but he couldn't afford to show weakness, not to Sark.

The hotel room was stark white – the leather of the chairs, the silk of the coverlet, the sharp-angled paper shades of the lights. Their fight had not disturbed or soiled it. Within it, Vaughn felt dirty and unkempt; his unshaven beard and rumpled clothes didn't belong anyplace so pristine. Though Sark was dressed entirely in black, he perversely belonged there, as much in his place as a chessman upon a board.

So Vaughn fixed his sights on the city below, grimy and sooty despite its sparkle; he belonged on the streets, not up here. Physical recovery was complete; emotional recovery was impossible. He needed to stop thinking and act. "I'm in. That's it. Now show me what you've got."

Sark's response to this was wordless; he pulled a silver laptop from his satchel, opened it up, and hit the few keys that showed Vaughn what he wanted to see. Blueprints and schematics shifted beneath him as though he were a bird in flight, looking down into the hallways and corridors right into the vault where he would find his prize.

"The security isn't nearly as tight as you'd expect," Sark said. "Which is to say that it's extraordinarily tight by most standards, but nothing we haven't seen before."

"I assume you have some details to back all of this up."

"Naturally." Sark brought a folder out of his satchel, tossed it onto the bed. Sheets of paper spilled out across the silk coverlet, white on white.

Vaughn ignored them for the time being. He'd deal with the demands of caution later. For now, he needed to focus on the goal itself, to imagine the room where it lay and himself within it. The only way he could possibly keep himself from sinking into despair was to concentrate on exactly what he was after. "According to this, the holding space is only temporary. We should move soon."

"Not tonight." Sark's relaxed posture as he leaned back in one of the leather armchairs was as maddening as it was confusing. "A flashy new nightclub just opened across the street. The street will be filled with young girls high on various intoxicants, eager for thrills and probably carrying camera phones they would certainly use to record any unusual disturbance. Tomorrow night the club will be closed, and we'll have far more privacy." Then he smiled, an expression Vaughn did not like. "Of course, we could visit tonight anyway. For the purposes of research, you understand. And a few drinks might numb the effects of our earlier contretemps. Other pain-numbing experiences would of course be available --"

_(They were fighting against time to save Will Tippin's life, on the run from both SD-6 and the CIA, and all Vaughn had been able to think about was that it was the first time he'd ever held Syd's hand. _

Her blue wig caught the lights of the nightclub, and her kohl-rimmed eyes were shining. Sydney's happiness had seemed to flow into him; he'd thought he'd never get over that, the fact that she could be so frightened and so determined, and yet so happy. Vaughn had dared to let himself think that his loyalty to her might be the reason.

A guy had muscled between them, trying to dance with Sydney. Any guy in any club might do the same, but Vaughn decided his character wouldn't like it. He'd pushed his rival away, a hard thump on the shoulder – and it had felt right, claiming Sydney as his own.

Vaughn had glanced over at her to see if she was moved, or surprised, or turned on. Instead, Sydney had been laughing, and it was just so damn perfect that she was laughing, and that was the first moment that he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was more than a friendship, more than a crush.)

"I don't feel like hitting a nightclub," Vaughn said, never looking away from the laptop, though he had ceased to see it. "Go if you want."

"Young women don't interest you any longer, I see." Sark studied him, pale eyes searching and clear. "You have left Sydney, but she has not left you."

Turning from the laptop at last, Vaughn snapped, "Don't say her name again. Okay? Not you. Don't do it."

Naturally, Sark was not at all cowed by this, but he obeyed the letter of Vaughn's law, if not the spirit. "And will you never speak to her again? She'll be heartbroken, you know. In need of consolation. Very much in my line."

Like Sydney would ever have anything to do with this pretentious, vicious Eurotrash. "I'll speak to her again. After this." Assuming they made it out alive.

"To explain?"

He could never explain, not without hurting her more than he already had. "To say goodbye."

"Waiting until after you've already crossed the Rubicon. Smart of you, or idiotic, depending on how one chooses to look at it. But undeniably effective."

It was galling to realize that Sark was the only one who understood.

**

**Rome, Italy**

 

"You're sure you're all right?" Jack said as he made his way down a steep, cobblestoned street. Throughout the cell-phone conversation, he kept studying his surroundings; nobody observed him from windows, no tourists snapped photos that happened to include him. "I can come back tonight, if that's necessary."

"I've been at the house for two days now, and I haven't broken yet." Sydney still sounded terrible, but her feistiness was probably a sign of recovery. "Weiss is going to come by tonight, maybe crash on the sofa. At least now he'll leave the hospital for a while. But he's just trading one sick sister for another."

"So, Nadia – there's no change."

"No." The light in Sydney's voice faded, and Jack felt the darkness fall over him as well. Nadia's bloody body and struggling breaths on the plane back from Sevogda had haunted his dreams, at least until Sydney's crash created new nightmares. "I want to visit her in the hospital tomorrow. Marcus too."

"You shouldn't overtax yourself."

"Dad, I need to see my sister." Obviously Sydney would not discuss this further. "While I'm at APO, I'm going to talk to Marshall. I have some ideas about how to search for Vaughn, some hunches that might be worth following up on."

Jack would have liked to tell her to wait until he could follow up on the hunches for her, but Sydney's mind was set. At this point, it was undoubtedly good for her to have something to do, to ground her overactive imagination in hard fact. Though he was scarcely in a position to judge anyone for having an overactive imagination at the moment --

Sydney, perhaps reading his mind, said, "Are you sure Mom knows something about this?"

"When it comes to your mother, I no longer like to say that I'm sure of much. But in her last communication with me, she suggested that she might have some insight into Vaughn's motives."

"Still the best lead we've got, then." She hesitated, then said, "Are you sure we can trust her?"

"As sure as I am that we can trust anyone." Which wasn't much. But Sydney's hesitation surprised him. "Are you?"

"I know what happened to her. I know it was horrible. And I know that she loves me, and Nadia, but, Dad, she still believes in Rambaldi. You heard the way she was talking in Sevogda, about red horses and fallen angels. Anybody who believes in Rambaldi is just – not dealing with the same reality we are."

Although he understood Sydney's doubt – and on some level shared it – Jack had acted too quickly to condemn Irina before; he did not intend to make the same mistake again. And her uneasiness was probably a projection of her own concern about Vaughn and what had been found in his apartment. "She'll tell us what she knows about this. It's going to be all right."

"I hope so." The silence on the other end of the line didn't really resemble hope. Sydney sounded tired when she finally said, "See you tomorrow."

"All right." He tried to find the right words – something encouraging without being patronizing – but as ever, they escaped him. "Feel better." Then Jack was alone in the courtyard with his thoughts; they were more troublesome company than his daughter, by far.

Jack took his position at a café table nestled into a stone alcove. The suspense that tossed him, aloft and then down, as if on waves – he would have felt that in a parking garage or a warehouse or even on a phone call. But as he took a steadying sip of the café's cheap Chianti, Jack thought maybe he shouldn't have chosen a place with ivy that clung to sand-colored walls, with shadows that sheltered the table away from the world. This was a place for lovers to meet – a place for coming together, not goodbyes.

The footsteps on the cobblestones were hers; Jack could not have said how he knew, but he did. Carefully, he waited to lift his head until she was almost to the table. Irina gave him the same smile he gave to her – casual and light, any two friends out for an early drink before dinner.

She sat opposite him, tucking her chestnut hair behind her ears. The black dress she wore left her arms bare; Jack could still see the faint line of a scrape she'd taken along her bicep in Elena's compound. More than a month later, and she still had the mark.

Irina remained focused. Even as she poured from the carafe, she said, "How is Sydney doing?"

"She's fine. Sydney's fine." Jack projected more confidence than he felt; he could understand the irrationality of parental worries more clearly when they were not his own. "She's home from the hospital. Naturally, she's upset, and she's still healing from her injuries. But she's all right."

Irina sighed, and her smile softened into genuineness. "Thank God."

"At this point, Sydney's mostly concerned about Vaughn. She's hurt, and I don't think she's resting as much as she should."

"How much did he tell her?"

"Vaughn began to inform her that his name wasn't really Michael Vaughn. Apparently that's as far as he got before the crash." Jack hesitated, then introduced the element that turned every situation into chaos: "Since his departure, we've learned that his interest in Rambaldi was apparently far greater than we'd realized."

She cocked her head, studying him. "To the best of my understanding, at some point in the past two years, Vaughn has become –" Holding out her hands, she struggled for the word and settled on, "—a believer."

"That damned fool." Jack set his glass down against the metal table so sharply it rang. "What can he have been thinking?"

"He wasn't working within the various cults for power, not as far as I know. I don't think Vaughn ever fell prey to that particular madness."

"But you don't know for certain."

"No. I – I heard about Vaughn's involvement from Elena." Just the sound of her sister's name carried the memory of pain; Jack's anger, though still powerful, became less important than Irina, struggling for words. "She used to taunt me about it. About so many things, but that too. Apparently Vaughn was communicating with a Rambaldi follower only known by a code name: Monarch. Elena knew about it, but Monarch was – is – a minor figure. Someone who bought information, but never made an independent power play. My sister found it very amusing that Sydney's lover had become converted, and that he had chosen such an unimportant person to learn the truth from."

"The joke's on us." Their shared loathing of Elena – dead too soon and too mercifully – bound them together for one heady, frustrating moment. Steadying himself, Jack focused on the variables. Vaughn had begun to believe in this foolishness. Was that alone enough to make him leave Sydney? Jack had to doubt it; Rambaldi followers gravitated toward Sydney, and surely the combination of love and faith would only have pulled Vaughn closer. And yet he'd vanished. "We need to find this Monarch. Any information about where Vaughn has gone and why must relate to what he currently believes about Rambaldi."

"Monarch is elusive; I've never known anyone who had a direct meeting with him, or her, whatever the case may be. But I'll do what I can. Vaughn's abandonment of Sydney – it makes no sense. If Monarch has other prophecies, something that Vaughn's learned, we should know that too."

"Thank you. I'm sure Sydney will be grateful."

Irina smiled at him crookedly, and the sunset light was brilliant on her hair. He had no words for her, and when he tried to analyze his confusion, he found himself remembering their first date – she had overwhelmed him from the beginning, breaking through his defenses, leaving him speechless and wonderfully unsure.

In the five years since he had known Irina was alive, Jack had been able to shelter himself from his love for her through anger at what she had done to him or, more recently, from guilt at what he had done to her. Now that they had forgiven one another, those defenses were gone.

Simply being together with no blame – two people sitting together in the twilight – felt as though it something stolen against all odds.

Irina finally said, "I know you would have told me if – if Nadia had died."

"Nadia's alive." Jack put as much reassurance as he could into those two words, because none of the rest of his news gave any hope. "The doctors say she's in a kind of stasis. Not a coma – they can't fully explain it."

"She will never awaken." Her certainty was terrible, beyond mere despair. "Rambaldi's words were clear. Nadia's fight with Sydney ended her life."

"How can you be so sure? The prophecies said Sydney would kill Nadia, not her father."

"Not Sloane." Was that a correction? For the second time in a month, Jack felt the sudden jerk of hope and confusion at the hint that possibly, Nadia was not --was not who he knew her to be: Sloane's daughter. Irina kept talking, again proving the falsity of Jack's imagination. "But the canto breaks at that line. We assumed one sister would kill another, but the prophecy doesn't actually say so."

"You still believe in these prophecies. Even when they tell you that Nadia is lost. Even after everything they've cost us."

"And you still don't, even after watching them unfold before your eyes." Irina's smile did not reach her eyes. "I've accepted the truth. Don't try to convince me that there's hope when there is none. I want to believe that so badly that I might believe it, and then – when Nadia dies – Jack, don't."

He held out his hand, offering comfort but not forcing it on her. Irina clasped his fingers tightly. Jack realized that, for Irina, the only way to endure was to think of Nadia's loss as an event in the past, not the future; as much as he hoped she was wrong, he recognized that he could give no guarantees. She breathed in and out, slow and deep, fighting for composure.

Long after she had won it, they still held each other's hands.

"I've missed you," Irina said simply. "The last month – Nadia – it's been hard."

"I know." He had lost a child; the fact that Sydney had come back would never erase the knowledge of that pain. "I've thought about you. Wondered how you were."

"I never used to need comfort, perhaps because there was none to be had. I was proud of that. Now –" She sighed. A summer breeze ruffled the ivy leaves on the wall; a strand of her hair drifted across her throat. "I've wanted you with me, Jack."

Jack raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. Irina open and shut her eyes slowly, like a cat enjoying a spot of sunshine. His heartbeat quickened as he asked, "Do you have to leave Rome tonight?"

She shook her head, and her fingers caressed his cheek. The gentle touch took all the conviction from her words as she said, "You know we shouldn't do this."

"Of course." He leaned against her palm. "But we do things we shouldn't do all the time."

Irina shook her head, and for a moment Jack was sure she would pull away. But she did not. "Where?"

"The apartment Sydney owned as Julia Thorne – we keep it as a safe house, one the CIA doesn't control. It's ten minutes' walk."

"Take me there." Their eyes met, and once more Jack remembered their early romance, the sharpness of his initial desire for her. It welled up in him again and made him smile despite himself. Irina laughed softly, her sadness perhaps leavened by her delight in her enduring power to hold him in thrall.

Once that power had frightened him. Perhaps it should still have frightened him, but it did not.

They left the café arm in arm; Irina rested her head on his shoulder, the way she did when they were dating a lifetime ago. In the apartment, they undressed each other beneath the skylight, guarded by a stone angel with her wings outstretched.

Jack had known other lovers of varying degrees of inconsequence over the years, but not since he had known Irina as Laura had he touched upon this feeling -- the lightness of giving in to the moment, having no agenda, no fear, no doubt.

It was dangerous, losing doubt, but Jack could not have turned back.

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

Sydney stood at the foot of Nadia's hospital bed, watching her sister's still form.

After much convincing, Weiss had finally listened to Sydney's pleas and taken a day off. Instead of going to the beach or taking in a movie, Sydney suspected Weiss was simply asleep in his own bed – but after weeks of catching catnaps on the med center sofa or at Sydney's apartment, Weiss probably needed it.

"He loves you so much," Sydney told her sister. "I don't know if you loved him the same way – I always sort of thought you didn't. Now I hope I was wrong."

Irina had never known Nadia to care about her as more than an abstraction. The men in Nadia's past had sold her out – to criminals, to her own government, to one another. Sydney had deceived her sister to get one shot at destroying Sloane. And Sloane had shot his own daughter. Maybe Weiss was the only one who'd ever loved Nadia and never betrayed her. Her sister had deserved so much better than the fate she got.

_The Chosen One and the Passenger will battle, and one of them will perish – _

Sydney shut her eyes, blocking the sight of her sister's pale face.

Ever since Weiss' discoveries and her father's return from Rome a week ago, Sydney had felt even more lost than before. Vaughn a Rambaldi follower – it was impossible. Hadn't he risked his career to free her from DSR custody and get her to Mt. Sebaccio? (Not that it made any difference; Sloane and Elena Derevko and everyone else ignored the fact that Sydney had seen Rambaldi's morning sky.) Hadn't Vaughn believed in her when almost everyone else thought she was destined to "render the greatest power unto devastation?" (Though, according to her mother's latest embroideries on the legend, that had turned out to be a good thing.) Hadn't Vaughn fought against the Covenant and Anna Espinosa and Julian Sark – against everyone who had tried to turn Sydney into something mystical and unearthly, a prize to be fought over, instead of a person just trying to live her life?

Didn't Vaughn realize that this would hurt her more than anything else he could've done?

Breathing out in frustration, Sydney found herself wishing his secret had been some redhead in Malibu. That kind of thing would be easy, in comparison. Ice cream and weeping and couples therapy – and maybe, just maybe, you could come out on the other side. If not, you could walk away with your head held high. But this – it felt as though she were still trapped in the car's wreckage, the delirious haze of pain and metal that she dimly remembered. It was the last time she'd seen Vaughn's face.

_No,_ Sydney thought. _ I'm not going to do this. It's not the last time. Even Dad admits there's more to this; I'll figure out what it is. Nobody else understands Vaughn like I do._

Laying one hand on Nadia's foot as a kind of farewell, Sydney then turned and headed into APO. Despite her discomfort and exhaustion, Sydney knew she could sit at a desk for an hour or two. Maybe she'd see something the others missed.

As she stepped into the white-and-chrome offices, Sloane stood there, hands folded behind his back, as though he had been waiting for her. "Sydney. I was hoping to have a word."

It felt weird to have Sloane ask her for her time; never before had they been each other's coworkers and equals. It felt even weirder to smile at him and mean it – sort of. "Sure. What is it?"

He led her to the conference room, saying, "You should sit down." Was this thoughtfulness, because of her injuries, or was he trying to prepare her for something difficult? Sydney felt a horrible tremor of dread as she wondered if Sloane wanted to talk about Nadia – about not feeding her through the IV, perhaps –

"We received intel today about a robbery that took place last week in Hong Kong." Sloane turned his screen display around to face her; the device pictured there was not one Sydney had ever seen before, but at this point, she knew that particular mixture of bronze and glass, the delicate clockwork gears, like a kind of signature: Rambaldi. "Two thieves broke into a warehouse and retrieved this."

"What does this one do?" She didn't bother disguising her contempt. "Draw a map that leads us to another map that leads us to a DNA fragment that belongs to somebody already in this room?"

Sloane folded his hands, patient and unruffled. "If you recognized this, Sydney, I think you would be more concerned. This instrument, on its own, is merely a fairly sophisticated gyroscope. But its real importance is as a necessary component of the Mueller Device."

"We destroyed the Mueller Device!" Sydney still remembered the water pooling at her family's feet, and the profound relief at walking outside to look up into a dark, unobstructed sky. "This wasn't destroyed with it?"

"You're speaking from frustration, Sydney. As you know, most of Rambaldi's work exists as plans, rather than as devices. Copies can be made – and, apparently, have been." Sloane's mouth twisted in something that might have been a grimace or a smile. "On its own, this may mean nothing. But we have to be aware that the cults haven't given up with Elena's death."

"Sydney?" Her father stood in the doorway, his displeasure plain. It was the first time she'd seen him in a bad mood since his return from Rome; he'd returned home relaxed and pleasant, despite his devastating news. Sydney was almost comforted by his return to form. He'd been made APO acting director the week before, and he spoke to Sloane in the unmistakable tone of someone giving an order. "She isn't ready to return to work."

Sloane replied, "I'm merely keeping her informed. That's all."

"She's still sitting right here. So you can both talk to me instead of about me." Sydney got to her feet, trying very hard to pretend that she wouldn't feel better sitting down. "And you're not just 'keeping me informed.' Dad, you should be happy to know that he's trying to make me suspect Vaughn."

"The Hong Kong theft." Jack shot Sloane a look that suggested this would be discussed again later. "We have no evidence linking Vaughn to that incident."

"We have a Rambaldi follower who's gone off the grid." Sloane pushed his glasses up his nose. Sydney realized that he was adopting the persona of an intellectual – an expert – to take the place of his old authority. She wasn't sure whether or not to let him get away with it. "All alternatives should be considered."

"Did you know?" Sydney said to Sloane. "What Vaughn believed?"

"No, Sydney, I didn't. And nobody should know the signs better than I. For my oversight, I apologize. It never occurred to me that Vaughn could share that particular weakness."

Jack stepped to her side, and his hand closed around her elbow. The assumption that she needed support would have been infuriating if she hadn't actually needed it. "This is enough for one day. You look tired."

"Sydney needs to know the truth, Jack."

She held up her hands. "If you two feel the need to debate something today so you can fight over the new hierarchy, make it something else." Then she took a deep breath and turned to Sloane. "Thanks for keeping me posted, but next time, say what you mean instead of manipulating me. Dad, I know you're concerned, but let me decide what I can and can't do."

"All right," Jack said. He didn't look convinced, but he was letting her do what she wanted, which for him was actually pretty good.

"How about you give me a ride home in an hour?" Relieved, her father nodded – and left her alone to follow up on her own leads.

"OK, I took the parameters you gave me and got a little wild and crazy with it." Marshall's office, the one dark and crowded catacomb within APO, only had a single chair, which he had offered to Sydney. He paced around the terminal, so enthusiastic about his search techniques that he had – at least for the moment – forgotten to be depressed about they were researching. "I tracked every one of Vaughn's international trips, both on- and off-book – known international trips, I should say, because I guess we've all made an unauthorized run for the border now and then in our line of work, and I'm not talking about Taco Bell. But this database takes into account every time a passport belonging to Vaughn or any of his official aliases used CIA transport, went through US or international customs or got diplomatic waiver from customs."

"And this goes back the whole year, right?" Sydney meant to track every movement since Vaughn had learned about his father's real identity – and clear him from any connections to Rambaldi thefts, discoveries or acts of violence. "Cross-referencing against all the Rambaldi incidents?"

Marshall grinned, the way he did when he'd exceeded expectations. "Please. One year? Hardly a test of my skills. I went all the way back to when Vaughn was first field-rated. No point in not checking the whole haystack for that needle."

"Even better." Sydney smiled back at him, even more grateful than usual for Marshall's genius. "And nothing shows up, right?"

Silence. No longer pacing, Marshall stared back at Sydney, his smile fading into distress. "Well, not nothing. I wouldn't call it 'nothing,' exactly."

"One or two things. Coincidences. Or – we're always running after Rambaldi believers, so some overlap is inevitable –"

"There's more than that." He ran his hands through his already-mussed hair, forehead crinkling in worry. Sydney felt as though the panic welling up inside her was showing on Marshall's face instead of her own. "Syd – I know this looks weird, but there's gotta be an explanation, right? Has to be. And, hey, you wanted some answers, right? We've got some answers lurking in these numbers somewhere, I just know it."

She forced herself to nod. "Marshall, seriously, this is –" Great? Wonderful? She couldn't say the words. "—just what I was looking for. Thanks."

Undeceived, Marshall hung his head, as though he were ashamed to have hurt her by having found the data she needed. "I'm gonna leave you to it, okay?"

Once she was alone, Sydney stared at the interface. Where could she begin proving Vaughn's innocence? First of all, she could weed out every verified mission, every time Vaughn had pursued Rambaldi because the CIA or APO told him to. This constituted so much of their field work that Sydney thought it probably skewed the results considerably.

The image Sloane had showed her flickered in her memory – despite Elena's fall, despite everything her family had accomplished, somebody out there still believed in Rambaldi, was still chasing that terrible endgame –

But it wasn't Vaughn. Sydney knew that as deeply as she knew anything. He had shown faith in her more times than she could ever count or name; he deserved her faith in return.

Resolutely, Sydney began going through the database, calling up significant dates in her memory and eliminating them immediately. Their sabotage of the Nightingale project – explained. Retrieving Nadia from Sloane in Kyoto – explained. Saving Sydney from Lauren at the excavation site – explained, of course –

Wait.

Sydney's eyes narrowed; she leaned closer to the screen, the soft green glow of the screen illuminating her skin.

After Lauren's death, Sydney had remained on-site for two days: filing the official reports, arranging for the transport of Lauren's corpse and handling the details of Katya Derevko's arrest and imprisonment. Only after all that work was done had she gone to Wittenberg to see her father's secret files detailing her mother's "murder." Vaughn had left almost immediately; given his shaky physical condition, Sydney had urged him to return to Los Angeles right away. He had agreed, and though they had not kissed each other farewell – everything had been too strange and painful then for goodbye kisses – Sydney had held his hand for a few long moments before he got on the CIA jet.

That CIA jet had gone to Wittenberg two days before Sydney had. Vaughn hadn't traveled to America until after that trip.

Why? What would Vaughn have done in Wittenberg? Tried to hide the files from her? How would he even have known what was in them? And of course, the files had all been waiting there for her anyway; even after holding her mother in her arms again, Sydney could still feel the lacerating pain of believing her dead – and the coldness that had divided her from her father for months, just when they seemed to have built the first real friendship of their lives.

Sydney tapped on the keyboard, searching Marshall's database for any other trip Vaughn might have taken to Wittenberg. Her heart sank when another date popped up instantly – a date almost three years in the past.

Wittenberg isn't just one bank vault, Sydney told herself. Anything could have happened there –

But no matter how much she wanted to believe in Vaughn, Sydney knew better than to put her faith in coincidence.

She considered calling Marshall in to do the hacking she needed, which he could probably pull off within five minutes. But her abilities could get the job done, even if it took longer. Sydney wanted to do this on her own.

The bank in Wittenberg had standard security protocols for a financial institution: the account numbers and attached names were locked down tight, too tightly for Sydney to get through. She didn't need to prove that Vaughn hadn't rented a safety-deposit box, though; she just needed to prove that he hadn't been in the bank. For that, she only needed security footage from the lobby – something the bank's computer system didn't guard with nearly as much vigilance.

With shaking fingers, Sydney typed in the date after Lauren's death – then backspaced, erasing each number. She wanted to see, and yet she didn't want to see. The older date felt safer, somehow; she entered that instead and began scrolling through the footage. Dozens of figures scrambled at high speed, blurs against the unchanging lobby of the bank, through which the morning light slowly arced through the windows, etching out the hours to noon, and then past it –

In the space of a blink, Sydney recognized Vaughn's face. She froze the images, scanned back and then locked on a single frame.

Vaughn – three years younger, smiling and carefree – stood at the front desk, holding his hand out for the manager to shake. Next to him, her arm threaded through his, was Lauren, his wife.

Lauren's face was turned up toward Vaughn's, her pale hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She looked happy and confident: a young bride in love. Vaughn was not looking back at her, but he had brought Lauren with him. Whatever he was doing there – it was something they had done together.

Different clues and theories began to click together in Sydney's mind, every single one of them worse than the last. But even as her throat tightened and her eyes filled with tears, one thought crowded out every other in Sydney's mind, one thought so black and overpowering that it crushed her faith and hope into dust.

Whatever Vaughn's secrets were – whatever he had hidden from Sydney all these years – Lauren had always known.


	3. Chapter 3

**Los Angeles, California**

 

_"Did you never wonder why you've been working with your mother all year, and yet you've never seen her?" _

Lauren's words taunted Sydney, a year after they'd been shouted from the mouth of her grave.

_"At least I know who I'm working for!" _

Vaughn's face had been made of stone as he lifted his gun and fired. Again. And again, and again –

Sydney pushed her chair away from Marshall's desk and rose unsteadily to her feet. The exhaustion and discomfort she'd been struggling against all day threatened to drag her down, but she refused to surrender to them. Using the cane Jack had loaned her, Sydney limped down the hallway toward her father's office.

Jack saw her the moment she came into view, rising from his desk. "Sydney, you don't look good." _Always tactful,_ Sydney thought, but she had never cared less about his lack of delicacy. "Let's get you home."

"Dad, I need you to tell me something, and you have to tell me the absolute truth, no matter what." She braced her hands against the doorjamb, trying to steady herself.

Although he was clearly uneasy with the terms she'd given, Jack nodded. "All right."

She remembered his evasion in the hospital room when he'd talked about working with Vaughn to help kill Lauren. "Last year – when you applied for permission to assassinate Mom –"

Her father was already turning to stone before her eyes. Sydney pressed on.

"—Vaughn knew, didn't he? You told him about it. He knew all along."

Even before Jack nodded, Sydney saw in his face that she was right. The wife-murderers' club. And if Vaughn had always known –

Tears stung her eyes, and Sydney clapped one hand to her mouth. The room tilted treacherously beneath her feet, and her father quickly steered her to a chair.   
"Sydney, rest. I'll get you some water –"

"I don't need water!"

Her father actually knelt by her chair, his demeanor reminding her of how he had acted at her hospital bedside. "I know this is a difficult subject for you. It is for me too. But your mother is alive and well –"

She shook her head, cutting off his words. "It's not that. Dad, don't you see? He set you up. Vaughn set us both up."

"What?"

Deep breaths steadied her voice, and if she blinked fast, the tears didn't well up in her eyes. "That wasn't your vault in Wittenberg, was it?"

"No. I assumed it was storage for a member of the Covenant. Why do you --"

"How did you know to go there? Why did you show up that day, in that place?"

Jack's gaze had turned inward now, reexamining memory through new, sharper-focused lenses. He obviously didn't like talking about that terrible encounter any more than she did. "Vaughn called me and said that Lauren had shouted something to you when she was dying – something that suggested the Covenant knew about what I did to – to the woman who looked like your mother. He said she'd given you the number of a bank vault in Wittenberg where there might be evidence; I tried to beat you there. I failed."

"She did give me the number to a bank vault." Sydney could hardly see her father; the images in her mind were all of that night, of Lauren stumbling and bloody, trying to choke out her last words. "But she didn't say anything about you killing Mom. Nothing. Vaughn was lying, Dad. He went to Wittenberg two days before I did, before he ever called you. He had those documents because you had shared them with him. And he put them in that vault so I'd have something to find, something shocking – something that I would believe was Lauren's big secret. But that wasn't it at all."

"How can you be sure?"

"It was his bank vault. Vaughn rented it three years ago, with Lauren. I just saw the security footage." As exhausted as though she hadn't slept in weeks, Sydney sagged back into her chair. "Lauren shouted out a warning to me just before she died – but she wasn't talking about you. She was talking about Vaughn."

"What did she say? Besides the description of the vault?" Her father's face was drawn now, obviously almost as sick about the mistake as Sydney was herself.

"Lauren said some stuff about Mom – about why we hadn't seen her for a year, so all that time – she knew Mom was in trouble and never told us." This was the monster Vaughn had married, the one he'd told his secrets to. "There was more, too, and it must have all tied to Vaughn. She was trying to warn me about him – and then he took his gun and – I thought he was trying to protect me, but he was just protecting his own secret. That's why he killed her. And that means -- whatever he's been hiding from me, the answer was hidden in that vault."

Jack stood up so abruptly that it was almost violent; Sydney had rarely seen her father lose his temper, but she thought it might happen now. She had no strength to deal with it, and was almost trembling before he breathed out, slow and deliberate, asserting his control. "I never understood why the Covenant would want to reveal what I'd done. It gave them no tactical advantage."

"And the other documents – my birth certificate and stuff – that never did make any sense." Bitterly, Sydney added, "I guess Vaughn had to improvise on short notice."

She felt sick. Until this moment, she hadn't realized how much her faith in Vaughn was holding her together. His love had supported her in so many of the worst moments of her life; Sydney had never had to ask herself if it was dangerous to rely on any one person that much. Even when she'd discovered he was married to Lauren, at the very depth of her loneliness, Sydney had never doubted that Vaughn cared about her, would fight for her, truly loved her for the person that she was.

But she had never known Vaughn at all. Only the man she'd wanted him to be.

Her father's hand on her arm was unexpectedly firm. "You've given us a lead," he said. "We have a place to start. That was good work."

It helped a little, to think of it like a mission. Just another piece of investigation. But the world was still very far away. "Thanks," she said dully.

Mercifully, he didn't prolong the conversation. "Let me take you home. We'll discuss this later, after you've rested."

"Home," Sydney repeated. She didn't know where that was anymore.

 

**Kyoto, Japan**

 

"You've never told me why you killed Lauren."

Vaughn didn't take his eyes off the warehouse door to look at Sark, crouched beside him with a few trash cans as cover. Three guards lay on the pavement in front of them; their intel said there should be no more, but they would wait five more minutes to be sure. In the distance, the glittering lights of the multi-story train station and shopping complex reminded Vaughn of a better, brighter world, one where he didn't belong. "I've never felt like killing Lauren required much explanation."

"Nonetheless." Sark shifted his weight, but his gun remained steady; the barrel was all Vaughn could see of him, which was how he liked it. "I accept this partnership with you because it is the best means, if not the only means, to accomplish our common goals. But if you think I have forgotten her, you are mistaken."

"That's your problem. Not mine." It was true; Vaughn was so focused on the device within the warehouse that he couldn't even picture Lauren's face at that moment.

Sark's tone was even drier than usual. "You honestly believe you can bury yourself so deeply in Rambaldi's work that Sydney's memory can no longer find you. It would be amusing, were it not so pathetic."

Vaughn snapped, "I shot Lauren six times. You saw the evidence. We looked at her corpse together. What else do you need to know?"

"Why. I need to know why."

"She was about to fire a gun at Sydney." Every time he said Syd's name, it hurt. Every time.

"You are a fully trained CIA operative – ex-CIA, I mean. You know how and where to fire to keep an opponent alive for questioning, and I am under the impression there were a great many more questions the CIA would have liked to ask. Instead, you killed Lauren." Sark went very still, and Vaughn had the same sense of dangerous potential he'd felt the first time he saw a coiled cobra. "Was it purely anger? Heat of the fight? That I could understand, if not forgive."

Vaughn slowly turned toward Sark. Although Sark kept his face turned toward the warehouse, his eyes flicked over to Vaughn, just for a second.

"Why are you asking me this?" Vaughn said at last. "Nobody knows more about my secrets than you."

"Your secrets?"

Sark stared at him openly now, and Vaughn felt an unwilling tug of amusement. Don't smile, he ordered himself – but too late, as the grin started to spread. "You didn't know," he said. "Lauren never told you."

"Your secrets," Sark repeated. He had the picture now, and he didn't like it. Good.

The laughter was hard and bitter, but it was the first Vaughn had known in a month, so he gave into it. "Lauren always knew. She always knew everything. It was a secret between the two of us – and I always thought she told you. But you didn't know a damn thing about me or her." Vaughn rocked back on his heels, enjoying the revelation as much as he did the fact that no other guard was coming out of the warehouse. Rambaldi's work was utterly unguarded – ripe for the taking.

"I knew a great deal about you. Shall I prove it?" For once, Sark's hauteur was shallow, fooling no one, neither Vaughn nor himself.

"You didn't know about the Milan Prophecy until I told you, did you?" Shaking his head, Vaughn took a few steps forward, preparing to triangulate their entry. "Maybe you and Lauren weren't as much in love as I thought. Or as much as you thought."

For the rest of their mission, Sark had nothing else to say. Vaughn found he appreciated the silence.

Once they were back in their hotel in Kyoto, Rambaldi's bronze gears safely packed in their storage case, Sark promptly left to go out on the town. It was possible that he'd walk away and never come back, partnership over – but Vaughn knew better than to give in to wishful thinking. More likely he was just cruising for girls again; for a man who claimed to be in everlasting grief for the woman he'd loved, Sark did a lot of fucking around.

This meant that Vaughn had hours of solitude to do whatever he needed to do. And what he needed to do most – what he was both most desperate for and most dreading – was finally talk to Sydney.

They'd visited Kyoto together, just around a year and a half ago, and they'd stayed in a hotel not unlike this one – though the occasion wasn't all that romantic.

_("She's so tired." Sydney had hovered at the side of the bed, looking down at Nadia, who'd fallen asleep the moment they'd gotten her to safety. She still wore the white nightgown from her captivity. "But she claims Sloane was trying to save her." _

"Maybe he was." Vaughn had been unable to stop looking between the two sisters, overwhelmed by the similarities between them, the fact that there was anyone in the world who captured even a fraction of the beauty and spirit he'd always thought of as Syd's alone.

"Sloane kidnapped her. He tortured her."

Vaughn had remembered the Milan Prophecy – then shoved the thought aside, refusing to countenance it as anything but a lie. "Rambaldi's work does strange things to people. It makes them believe in things that seem unbelievable." He'd stroked Sydney's hair, soothing her fear for Nadia. "But whatever they believe in -- that doesn't change who they love.")

Enough procrastination. He sat down on the edge of the bed, took a few deep breaths, and picked up the phone. The hotel operator spoke perfect English and set about making the connection for him; Vaughn realized he was trembling as he sat on the edge of the bed, cradling the receiver to his face with cold, sweaty hands.

Sydney had to be so shattered; Vaughn could still see her bloody body next to him in the wreck, the pattern of her wounds imprinted on his mind. He'd hurt her less this way than the full truth would have – she could never know that, but he knew it, and it would get him through this. It had to.

"Hello?" Her voice sounded strange. They had a bad connection.

"Syd."

Silence. Vaughn had expected either immediate anger or immediate tears.

When Sydney finally spoke, her words were dull and flat. "Are you going to tell me where you are?"

"No." Nor would he be on the line long enough for the call to be traced. "I can only imagine what you're thinking –"

"Your name is Matthias Diestler. I think you could have told me that a long time ago. You're a Rambaldi follower. I think that's insane. You switched the documents in the Wittenberg vault so that I'd find out about my father instead of finding out about you. And I think that's disgusting."

Vaughn's gut twisted, painful and cold. The Wittenberg vault – how had she known? It didn't matter; all that mattered was that Sydney was close to learning the one thing Vaughn had sacrificed almost everything to keep from her. Oh, God, she was so close, so much closer than he'd ever wanted her to be -- "Syd, I kept secrets from you, but I want you to know that I – that it was never for any reason except protecting you."

"Protecting me." She only spit her words out like that when she was furious, so mad her composure had completely deserted her. Vaughn could almost see the flush across her cheeks, the way her hands balled into fists. "Like my dad. Like my mom. They don't trust me to act like an adult, but Vaughn – how could you do this? You?" Sydney's voice cracked on the last word. This, at last, was what he'd been expecting; Vaughn felt no relief at finally having the conversation he'd planned for. "I know you have a reason. I know it can't possibly make up for the things you've done or the lies you've told, but I want to hear it. I deserve to hear it."

He almost considered telling her. But even if the truth won Sydney's forgiveness instead of her horror – and Vaughn thought it could go either way – that forgiveness could only destroy her.

Vaughn said only, "I'm not coming back. You ought to know that, and how sorry I am."

"You won't even –"

"When I asked you to marry me, I thought everything could be different." The whole world had been brighter then, filled with possibility. Vaughn found it hard to believe he'd ever lived so deep in that illusion. It felt like something that had ended decades ago, not within a few short weeks. Then again – hadn't it? "I wanted to spend my life with you, and I meant every word I said. I'm sorry I can't keep that promise."

"I'm not," Sydney said. He heard her gulp back tears. "I never even knew you. So how could I have loved you?"

She hung up before he could say anything else.

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

A review of the Wittenberg files confirmed what Sydney had said about Vaughn's last-minute switch; Jack remembered precisely which documents he'd shared with Vaughn, and the rest were all easily accessible by someone at Vaughn's former clearance level. If Jack had ever discussed Sydney's discovery with her in full, the deception might have been revealed months ago.

Of course, they had never discussed it in full; they had almost avoided speaking of it at all. Sydney had never shown him the documents before today. That was how they had handled, or not handled, virtually every rift between them in the past, and Vaughn had deftly turned that weakness in Jack's relationship with his daughter to maximum advantage.

On a tactical level, Jack admired this. Instead of merely emptying the vault, which would have awakened Sydney's curiosity and led her to further investigation, Vaughn had chosen the single discovery most likely to distract and upset her past the point of asking further questions. Furthermore, he had correctly counted on the habitual silence between Jack and his daughter to conceal the flaws in his deception. It was a neat piece of work, well-theorized and executed despite limited time and resources; Jack had obviously underestimated Vaughn's ability in several key respects.

On an personal level, Jack sincerely wanted to put his fist through Vaughn's face.

He didn't give a damn about having been informed upon. Jack had tried to kill Irina, after all, and if he had followed his instincts and told Sydney about it before she pursued Lauren, he would have disarmed Vaughn's game -- preferably by never going through with the murder in the first place. So the trouble this had caused him was his own fault. Nor did Jack believe that Vaughn had intended to permanently undermine the father-daughter relationship; this had not been a personal move, merely a strategic one, and Jack always respected effective strategy.

But Sydney was crushed, and that Jack would not excuse or forgive.

As he drove home from work, Jack wondered whether or not to go to Sydney's apartment. He had made a point of checking in on her at least once a day since her return from the hospital, but tonight she would probably want her privacy. However, his memory of her paper-white skin and shaking hands today at the office convinced Jack that what Sydney wanted mattered less than what she needed.

A quick trip to Yang's Great Wall supplied dinner, and Jack carried the bagful of cartons of fried rice and beef with broccoli to Sydney's door. She did not answer his first knock, or his second. Her car was in the driveway. Jack quickly unlocked the door. "Sydney?"

The apartment was mostly dark, although the sun was still setting outside. She had pulled all the curtains and blinds shut, and none of the lights were on. Sydney sat on her sofa, a half-full wineglass in her hand; she glanced over her shoulder, as if only mildly interested.

"Sydney, you didn't answer the door. Are you all right?"

"You have a key." She pronounced every word very distinctly, as if afraid to get it wrong. It took Jack a moment to realize that she was drunk. "I never gave you a key."

"I had one made in case of emergencies."

"Didn't ask for one. I would've given you one." Sydney tilted her head to one side, squinted as though she couldn't focus. "But you didn't ask. Just made another key without my permission."

He ignored this; of all the matters between them, past and present, borrowing her house key was surely among the least pressing. "Should you be drinking? You're still taking painkillers." Jack could now see the wine bottle on her kitchen countertop; it was nearly empty. "You should eat something."

"Vaughn called."

"What?"

Sydney slumped back onto the couch cushions; the wine sloshed within her glass, spilling red across the lapel of her white bathrobe. If she noticed, she gave no sign. "He called to tell me how much he really wanted to marry me. I asked him to explain –"

Her lips twisted into a grimace; even in the dim lighting, Jack could see tears welling in her eyes.

"I asked him to explain," she whispered. "I still thought he could explain. Even after I found out how he lied to me – about Rambaldi, and Lauren -- I really thought there could be some answer that would make this all right. But he wouldn't explain anything."

Jack resolved to settle many, many issues with Vaughn when they met again. Right now, other priorities took precedence. "You're going to eat some fried rice. And you should stop drinking that wine right –"

She threw the wineglass across the room, burgundy spraying out in a flume across the wall before the glass hit the floor and shattered. "All finished."

"Sydney –" He took a deep breath and set the bag down. "I'll take care of it."

"Can always count on you to clean up the mess." It didn't sound like praise. When he stared down at her, she shrugged, the gesture too exaggerated. "Always protecting me. You and mom and Vaughn, all protecting me. But for all of you, 'protect' is just another word for lie."

"You're drunk." Jack meant for the words to sting, and to judge by the way Sydney's head jerked back, as if struck, they did. He felt almost sick, seeing her like this: defenseless, hurting and alone, refusing to let anyone reach her. Yet hard words were the ones that came to him now. "If you want to have this conversation at some other time, we will. But right now, I think you're saying things you'll probably regret."

"Vaughn told Lauren the truth. Whatever it was. Truth is another word for love."

"No, it isn't."

She wiped angrily at her cheeks, but the tears still came. "You must be right. Because every single person I've ever loved has lied to me. All of them. Even Nadia – even she told lies – but they were just little lies, the kind that don't matter." Sydney was near tears again. "She's the only one who never betrayed me, and she's the one that's gone."

Sydney would be so humiliated the next day, knowing that she had let Jack see her raw pain and vulnerability; he was party to that humiliation just by being here. But he couldn't leave her alone now. Jack thrust the carton of fried rice into Sydney's hands, along with a plastic fork; she probably couldn't handle chopsticks at the moment. "You need to eat."

"You can't take it, can you? Seeing me like this. Seeing what the lies to do me –"

He sat down on the couch and took her shoulders in his hands, hard. It seemed to awaken her from her drunken haze; they stared at one another, unfamiliar with this intimacy, equally trapped by her anguish and their love.

"Listen to me. Although you may not realize it right now, I've experienced something like what you're going through." Those first terrible nights after Laura had died, after he had learned only the worst of the truth – he'd come apart. "Say what you want to say to me; it doesn't matter. But when you're – lost, like this – the first thing you have to do is get control of yourself."

Sydney stared at him. "Get control."

"You can't afford to show weakness. Not to your friends, not to your family, not to anyone." He wished he didn't understand so well the place Sydney was in right now. He wished Sydney had never had to understand it at all. "If you fall apart now, there are people who will take advantage of that. You can't let them."

"What about you?" Sydney's tear-rimmed eyes were wide. "I can't show you?"

He had comforted her with lies so many times. But for the first time in Jack's life, he could not see Sydney as someone to protect, as much as someone standing where he had been. Lies had been choking him then; even the harshest truths had felt like the air he needed to breathe. "No. Not now. Not even me."

She half-laughed, but the hard ring in her voice was gone. She stared off into the distance for a few moments, then clumsily, half-heartedly began eating the fried rice. Jack silently cleaned up the spilled wine and broken glass. They didn't speak for the rest of the night, but he kept taking care of small chores around the house and didn't leave until she had fallen asleep on the sofa, still in her stained robe.

Jack went to her side and covered her with the soft blanket that lay across a nearby chair. As he did so, he noticed a small glinting shine on the floor; at first he thought he'd missed a shard of broken glass. But then he realized it was her engagement ring, lying on the floor where she'd let it drop.

Should he take this away for her? Throw it out with the trash?

Jack had flushed his own wedding ring down a prison toilet twenty-five years ago. He'd always thought the undignified end appropriate, though now, as he remembered it, he felt an odd twinge not unlike regret.

He set the ring on a nearby table, for Sydney to deal with when she was herself again.

Whatever secrets Vaughn had – whatever had been in the Wittenberg vault – would be revealed, and soon. Once Jack had learned that, he would be able to protect his daughter, and avenge her against anyone who had caused her pain.

**

**Budapest, Hungary**

 

Irina strolled along the Danube, pulling her gray sweater more closely around herself to shield against the morning chill. Summer had ended, and she found herself looking forward to the fall.

Years ago, in Virginia, she and Jack had raked the leaves into piles. Sydney, no more than a toddler, would leap into them, giggling so that her parents both smiled.

For more than a quarter-century, all those memories had been more torment than pleasure to Irina. Now they had been given back to her, and she enjoyed going over each one, turning them over in her mind to marvel at how beautiful they still were, beneath the dust.

_Like opening up a time capsule,_ Irina thought. Did Jack feel the same way? She'd have to ask.

Nearly noon. Irina slipped her hand into her purse as she walked up the steps to the bank, like any other woman looking for an ATM, someone absent-minded enough not to notice that the bank was closed. Her palm closed around the butt of the revolver.

Taking one more deep breath of the cool autumn air, Irina pushed through the bank door.

Two men inside jerked their heads around, clearly unsure – just for an instant. In heavily accented Hungarian (Irina could do better, but she was playing a tourist), she asked, "Can you exchange pounds for me? " A big, sheepish smile accompanied these words, the silliness of a woman who thinks her face will always win her favors. "I'm out of cash, and I have to get a taxi to the airport –"

"We're closed," one of them said. They believed her. Good.

That let Irina take another couple of steps forward. "Oh, please, just this once? Only thirty pounds, no more –"

The revolver was in her grip, the men in her sights, pop pop and they both fell, blood spraying onto the white-tiled floor. Irina shook her hand, still stinging from the kick. She hurried into the back office – to find Katya, already out of the handcuffs and obviously preparing to leave. Irritated, Irina said, "I ran halfway across town at your signal. You might have escaped half an hour earlier and saved me the trouble."

"What can I say? Perhaps I'm losing my touch."

They stared at each other, then smiled. Irina could not have said whether she ran to Katya or Katya to her, but within seconds they were in each other's embrace. The last weight lifted from her, and Irina kept her close.

"My God, my God," Katya laughed. "A year in captivity, and you look more beautiful coming out than you did going in. Are you human, Irina? I begin to wonder."

"Your year in prison has been kind to you, too." Irina ran her palms across Katya's head, relishing the feel of her sister's short hair against her hands. When they were small, and their mother tried to get Katya to act like a proper young woman, Katya would bribe Irina to cut her hair short in the bathroom. They always got into trouble, but Katya somehow always made it worth Irina's while. "I've missed you."

"And I you. Forgive me for making this a business trip." Katya gestured toward the dead men on the floor. "They'd been causing me trouble for some time."

"No more."

Katya's grin was as wicked as ever. "Come on. We'll have crepes for breakfast. As we're both immortal, we needn't worry about getting fat."

They rubbed the prints off the gun and dropped it beside the dead bodies before they left.

Arm in arm, the sisters – the only two sisters now, Irina thought with relish – walked along the Danube. For a few minutes, they were silent; that very quietness was a luxury they'd shared too infrequently the past few years. Their meetings had been quick and furtive, always driven by the urgent business at hand. Every second had to count. Now they had time to spare, time to kill. The wind caught Irina's hair, and once again, she thought she could smell autumn on its way.

"You are enjoying your freedom," Katya said. "Not that it would require a psychic to know it. But this is more than pleasure I see in you."

"Freedom can mean many things." Irina luxuriated in all of them.

"Jack Bristow was the one who set me free." Katya's words surprised Irina, though she remained uncertain why. She and Jack were not used to giving each other gifts, not any longer. Irina didn't yet know whether or not they would reacquire the habit. "They bargained with me, for information about what Elena was doing."

"You withheld it before?"

"If I had told them everything – well. Then people begin talking about prosecutions and the death penalty. Secrets are the best insurance, Irina. You know that as well as I."

Remembering her own games of cat-and-mouse inside CIA custody, Irina nodded. In Katya's place, she would have risked anything to stop Elena, including her own life, but she could understand Katya waiting until the very last.

"When he told me you were still alive – ah, Irina." Katya squeezed her arm. "To know that you escaped our witch of a sister and that man. I should have known you were smarter than either of them."

Irina first meant to protest these words: Though she had survived Elena's plan, that had nothing to do with her intelligence, merely her endurance. She had lived long enough for her daughters and husband to come for her; this was accomplishment enough. But then something in Katya's voice struck her as odd. The anger toward Jack – it was too sharp, too personal, given that he was not in fact guilty of Irina's murder. This required evaluation.

She said only, "We were always the smart ones in the family, Katya."

"I still don't understand what overcame Elena." Katya had always been the least analytical of them – the most impulsive – but in this case, Irina could not blame her for not knowing. "She was always power-hungry and cruel, but that she came by honestly. Her insanity about Rambaldi – her desire to turn all his works into a whip-hand over the world – it makes no sense to me. Honestly. Pure mind control? Over a few handsome boys, for a few hours, that I could see." Even now, Katya could make Irina laugh. "But the entire world? Madness."

As much as she disliked even thinking about Elena when she didn't have to, Irina knew that she, too, needed to lay this to rest. "I think Elena meant only to show the world what she could do – just for a brief time. Then she would have demanded fortunes in returning for allowing humanity to retain free will."

"The illusion of free will." Katya had always been a fatalist, in her dark-humored way. "Elena had such grandiose visions, and yet she was only a mundane blackmailer at heart. Short-sighted cow."

They ate at a sidewalk café, both of them occasionally shivering in the breeze. Irina paid scant attention for the cold, because Katya could talk to her about Nadia. Her lost daughter had visited her aunt several times in prison – Katya knew her far better than Irina ever had. But Irina couldn't resent the love Katya had come to feel for Nadia; she was grateful for the portrait of an idealistic young woman hanging onto her aunt's every word about her mother – and for the fact that, through Katya, Nadia really had known Irina, just a little.

"I should be telling you to have hope for her recovery," Katya said flatly as they finished their meal. "But I know the prophecies as well as you do. I'm sorry, Irina."

"I've had decades to prepare myself for this."

Undeceived, Katya replied, "But it hasn't made it any easier."

Irina shook her head, brushing strands of hair away from her face. "And yet – if I had known her longer, losing her might have hurt even more." She didn't believe this; Nadia was her child, known or unknown, close or far away, and always had been. But she had to say it, to try and convince herself, or else even her considerable endurance might fail.

"Or if she had been Jack's. I think it would have made a difference to you then."

Her first impulse was to slap her sister. But then, Katya had never had children. She couldn't know. "I still wonder. I wouldn't want to find out now. If I discovered that Nadia was Jack's daughter after all – I would have to tell him someday, cause him more pain."

Katya's hand covered hers. "Irina, if it is any comfort to you, then I feel better informing you that Sloane truly was Nadia's father. The Telling itself confirmed it."

How could it still feel like a blow, all those years later? Long-cherished hopes, held close for decades despite their uselessness, curled up in the flames and burned to ash.

If Katya understood Irina's reaction, she was good enough not to give any sign. "Besides," she said briskly, snapping the crumbs from her napkin, "why should you worry about causing Jack Bristow pain? After what he did to you? Or would have done, if he'd had his way."

Until this moment, Irina had thought she'd answered these questions for herself. But the words did not come – not to reply to Katya, nor to still the disquiet within Irina.

When in doubt, respond tactically. "You dislike Jack," Irina said. "I always thought the two of you would get along."

Katya looked up at her, an expression on her face so unfamiliar that it took Irina a few seconds to register it as regret. "Oh, Irina. I have a confession."

"Then tell me."

"Are you armed?"

"You're not funny."

"I'm not joking, as you'll soon see, but I notice that you don't give me an answer. Very well, then. I always did live dangerously, which is part of the reason I have to tell you this." A deep breath, and then Katya faced her squarely. Irina felt a strange queasiness in her belly. "After Elena took you captive – for a while, she pretended to be you in e-mails. Instant messages."

"I know." Under torture, Irina had revealed every precious detail of her life: What she and Katya had talked about the last time they saw each other, which few secrets Irina had been able to share with Sydney, even the endearments she used for Jack and the way he liked to be kissed. Elena had possessed a genius for sadism; Irina could give her late sister her due.

"So I thought you were being unkind to me. Unfair. The causes aren't worth discussing, as they were all lies. I was angry." Katya's dark ruff of hair tossed in the breeze. Church bells nearby began to ring. "I don't know what lies Elena told Jack, but he was angry too, about Sloane if nothing else."

That was enough reason, but the fact did not console Irina now. The revelation Katya was about to make had begun to take shape in her mind, amorphous and shadowed, but clear enough for dread. "I know. Elena made that very clear – but I would have known anyway."

"That anger led me to –" Katya dropped her eyes. "I went to bed with Jack. One night, no more; as soon as I awoke the next day, I knew how wrong I had been. I know how much I am hurting you, telling you this – but you've been told too many lies, Irina. You deserve the truth, from me if from nobody else."

Irina bit down on the side of her tongue, hard. The taste of blood reminded her of battle and made her focus. She remembered waking up in Rome with her head on Jack's shoulder; they had slept tangled up in each other, like they did when they were dating so long ago.

"You were right to tell me," she said shortly.

Katya studied her face, searching so intently that Irina feared what she might reveal. "I'm not so sure."

"I've done you the courtesy of believing your motives. Believe in mine."

The chill in the air was sharper now; the day was growing colder, not warmer, as the sun rose in the sky. Autumn was near.

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

Weiss had a routine now, and that made it all easier. When the things he did were part of his daily routine, they weren't tragic, just ordinary.

He woke up an hour earlier than he used to; as long as APO remained on inactive status, he could keep a more-or-less regular diurnal rhythm going, which was a rare luxury. Added to the whole "routine" thing.

The tote bag was packed and by the door, and Weiss checked it daily to make sure nothing needed to be restocked: hand lotion, moisturizing cream, Chapstick, and a new soft clean washcloth every morning. He carried it into APO with his briefcase, then left the briefcase on his desk while he went to the medical level.

Some mornings, Sloane got there before him, and that meant they had to make uneasy chit-chat for a few minutes. Weiss respected that Nadia's dad needed to grieve in his own way, and in his own time, but it seemed like the guy never did anything useful. He'd never even heard Sloane talking to Nadia; he just stood there, like this was her coffin instead of her hospital bed.

Weiss liked to be useful. The sponge baths the nurses gave Nadia used soap that was too harsh for a girl who bathed in Yardley's English Lavender – who not only knew what the hell a loofah was, but also used one. Also, his internet research revealed that coma patients often had dry skin and chapped lips. So Weiss would fill his palms with lotion and massage her hands and arms, her feet and legs, chatting with her the whole time about anything that popped into his mind.

"Crazy traffic today. I don't mean normal, everyday Los Angeles crazy, either. It's like somebody let the orangutans out of the zoo and gave them all car keys as special parting gifts." He worked gingerly on her right hand, where the IV was. Didn't want to bruise her. "This SUV in front of me tried to cross four lanes to get in the off-ramp. Only reason I'm still here is the CIA defensive driving course. No idea how anybody else made it."

Then he moved to her face, dabbing on the moisturizer with two fingers; Nadia's cheeks were smooth beneath his touch. The bottle of stuff he'd taken from Nadia's bathroom was almost empty, which meant that soon he'd have to venture into a drugstore to find some more. Last of all, he would smooth on the lip balm, trying very hard not to remember the way she kissed.

"I'm getting good at this," he told her, screwing the cap back on. "Might have a future in cosmetology, if this whole spy thing doesn't work out."

Then he would kiss her forehead, pack up the tote bag and go downstairs to start work. With APO on inactive status, and therefore relegated to doing pure research, most days were pretty quiet and uneventful. But by 10:40 a.m., Weiss knew this day would be different.

"Four robberies in as many weeks," Sloane said, standing in front of screens that showed four different Rambaldi devices. They all kinda looked like grandfather clocks without faces to Weiss. "Each device a necessary component to the Mueller Device. At this point, the conclusion is unmistakable: Someone is attempting to reassemble it."

"Anybody else thinking about the Death Star? Return of the Jedi?" Weiss took another sip of his coffee. "Because I sure am."

The others around the table mostly gave him withering looks, save for Marshall, who nodded vigorously.

"A Rambaldi follower or followers are attempting to pick up where Elena Derevko left off," Jack said; though he didn't stand or give any orders, something in his voice made it clear that he was now top dog. Weiss glanced toward Sloane to see how that was going over, but Sloane simply listened attentively. "Obviously, they have to be stopped, and preferably at a much earlier stage in the process."

"Yeah, we don't need another city going loco." Marshall made a swirly gesture next to his temple. "The question is, how do we know where this is going to happen? Last time we had pretty good intel on Elena Derevko, plus, you know, huge red ball in the sky. That was definitely in the 'dead giveaway' category."

Director Chase was sitting in on the meeting – mostly, Weiss suspected, so that she could stick close to Dixon, who was back for his first day on the job. He was glowering at Sloane, as per standard operating procedure, but it was Chase who spoke first. "I take it you have to try and find out where these components are and who might be behind this."

"Monarch," Sydney said. It was the first thing she'd said all morning; ever since Vaughn had taken off, she'd looked like hell, and Weiss didn't think that was entirely because of the wreck. He was embarrassed to admit that she'd done a better job of taking care of him – making sure he slept, explaining why lotion for the face wasn't the same as lotion for the body – than he had of her. But every time Weiss tried to talk to Syd about Vaughn, she pushed him away.

Chase raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"

"Monarch. That's a Rambaldi follower, somebody who's been out there for a long time." She ducked her head for a moment, then added, 'Somebody who's been in contact with Vaughn."

"Let me be the first to state the obvious," Chase said. "These thefts began just after Agent Vaughn went rogue. Why are we looking for one of his friends instead of looking for him?"

Weiss would have liked to get really angry about that comment, but as much as he loved Vaughn – he knew sound reasoning when he heard it.

"Monarch has been involved with the Rambaldi cults for longer and undoubtedly knows more." Jack was the last guy Weiss would have expected to defend Vaughn, but that was probably for Syd's benefit. "Even if Monarch is not the culprit, he or she is likely to have information about who is behind this, and why."

"I have only one question." Leave it to Dixon; the guy was bandaged up and weak, but his voice still sounded like he could flatten the Great Wall of China, maybe just by looking at it. "Why is Arvin Sloane part of this task force? Given his deviation from all acceptable protocols, why is he still in APO at all?"

Sloane shifted on his feet, but he didn't answer. That fell to Chase. "Sloane acted for the good of the team, and he was instrumental in bringing Elena Derevko down. I don't appreciate his methods, but when it comes to Black Ops units, there's room for discretion."

"And this discretion means letting Sloane work with Rambaldi artifacts again?" Dixon and Sloane faced each other, enemies until the end, and Weiss suspected that the rest of them might as well not even have been in the room. "Everyone here understands how dangerous he can be, when he's following Rambaldi's work. In my opinion, this is an unnecessary risk."

Chase held out her hands. "You're entitled to your doubts. I'm inclined to share them. But the rest of this team backs up Sloane's version of events in Sevogda, and that means he's earned some discretion."

"May I begin speaking again?" Sloane asked waspishly. "Or is my security clearance still under review?"

"Go ahead, Arvin." Jack took charge again, and for the next few minutes they reviewed the various procedures for contacting Rambaldi sources, the questions they needed to ask and the kinds of research they'd be doing next. By this point, Weiss more or less knew the drill, so he was able to observe Dixon from the corner of his eye.

Dixon was furious, not that Weiss could blame him, but what was interesting was that he wasn't directing that volcanic glare of his at either Sloane or Chase. He was trying to get Sydney's attention – and Sydney wasn't having it. Instead, she remained focused on Sloane, resolutely, though she'd heard all this before too. Slowly, Dixon's face changed; Weiss could see the man's disbelief and hurt. _Et tu, Sydney? _

Well, Weiss figured, given time, Dixon would either accept that Sloane was actually on the level, or Sloane would stop being on the level. Not much point in worrying about it. Seeing Nadia upstairs every day – clinging onto her life, though she was too weak to fight – tended to put most problems in perspective.

But the morning's big wake-up call was waiting in Weiss' e-mail inbox when he returned to his desk. He didn't know the sender's name, but it had gotten through CIA screens.

GRIFFITH OBSERVATORY. TONIGHT AT MIDNIGHT. COME ALONE. TELL NO ONE.

_Gotta love an clandestine invitation to break CIA policy and maybe get myself killed, _Weiss thought. _Thanks tons, Mike. Next time, call. Maybe send a card. I'm thinking Hallmark makes something for "Sorry I betrayed you by joining a cult." _

Angry though he was, Weiss knew he would make the meet. Whatever was going on with Vaughn – whether he really was on some kind of insane Rambaldi quest, or some other bizarre problem had swallowed his best friend whole – well, Vaughn was still his best friend. They'd broken the rules for each other before; tonight wouldn't be the last time, either. Weiss still wanted to believe there was some kind of explanation for all this; if there wasn't, well, he wanted to know, so he could stop hoping.

_This better be good, buddy. _

At least one part of his afternoon routine didn't change at all. When the day ended, Weiss went upstairs and talked to Nadia for another twenty minutes or so, then kissed her on the forehead before he went home.

"Should have a hell of a story for you tomorrow morning," he promised her.

**

That night, he drove to Griffith Park, got out a quarter-mile from the observatory and walked the rest of the way. Weiss had worn his oldest blue jeans and a UCLA sweatshirt; he ambled along easily, just another night owl, nothing to see here, folks. It was an extra precaution – the observatory was closed for renovations, so the area was deserted – but Weiss didn't want to take any chances. At least, not any more chances.

Although he'd made a hundred late-night rendezvous with people a lot scarier than Vaughn, even a crazy version of Vaughn, Weiss realized that the suspense was beginning to get to him a little. He stuffed his hands into his jean pockets, kept his eye on the horizon as best he could. But it was so damn dark here, shadows on shadows; all he could make out were shapes of trees, rustling in the wind. Depressed and slightly weirded out, Weiss began to wonder how badly Vaughn wanted this meet – or whether it really was Vaughn.

He knew that at least he was doing a good job of watching out for intruders, right up until the moment the gun barrel pressed into the back of his neck.

He breathed in sharply, but he didn't move. Into the silence, he said, "Vaughn?"

"Hardly." Weiss turned to see Jack Bristow reholstering his weapon. Weiss wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not. "I heard someone approaching. Better safe than sorry."

Jack didn't define "safe" like most people, obviously. "Did you follow me here? To track Vaughn?"

"You seem very certain that the message you received was from Agent Vaughn." Jack squinted at him in the darkness. "Do you have verification of that fact, or is it just an assumption?"

"Assumption. And don't do that whole 'makes an ass out of u and me' thing, okay? It's old." Weiss sighed. "If you asked me that question, then the message didn't come from you, either. You got the same email?"

"Place, time, come alone and tell no one? Yes, the same." The two men stood side to side now, both of them searching the park for someone who had yet to show himself.

"Were you looking for Vaughn too?"

"Someone else," Jack said vaguely. Already his attention was drawn by a car in the distance, its headlights shining in their general direction. Weiss started for cover, but Jack caught his arm, holding him in place.

The car came right up to them, and when the headlights swiveled back down into the hood, Weiss could see Sloane behind the wheel. As Sloane stepped out, Jack said, "You're too cryptic for your own good, Arvin. As usual."

"That may be true in the general sense, but not today. I didn't summon either of you, but someone summoned me." Sloane had obviously already summed up the situation. "Someone broke through APO security rather thoroughly, if they were able to e-mail all of us. You should put Marshall on that immediately, Jack."

"The thought had occurred to me. Obviously."

While Jack and Sloane marked their territory, Weiss did some fast mental figuring. There were tons of shadowy underworld types who might try to contact Jack or Sloane, even a few who'd try to get in touch with Jack AND Sloane. But none of those people were in Weiss' address book. So how come he was in theirs?

Weiss looked up the hill toward the observatory itself; the spotlights weren't on, but the white building still gleamed in reflected city light. "The message didn't say to go to the grounds. It said we should go to the observatory. So I'm thinking we should hike it up there, now. It's ten minutes until showtime."

"We may as well drive." Jack was still glowering at Sloane, though not at full, Bristow-nuclear strength. "The car's certainly been spotted."

Sloane said only, "Given that we're expected, I see no point in further subterfuge."

Point to Sloane, Weiss decided, even though he now felt stupid for leaving his own car behind.

As they drove into the observatory's empty parking lot, Weiss kept trying to come up with a face or a name, someone who might be waiting for all of them. It wouldn't be Vaughn; although Weiss could imagine scenarios in which Vaughn might contact Jack, no way would he turn to Sloane. Irina Derevko probably didn't know Weiss' name. Katya, maybe? He hadn't met her, but the connection to Nadia might explain it –

Then the headlights swept past a figure standing at one of the viewfinders. A woman – long hair, trenchcoat – and a cane.

None of the men spoke to one another as they got out of the car and walked toward Sydney. She didn't even turn as they approached, just kept looking through the viewer at the Hollywood lights.

It was Jack who talked to her first. "Did you receive one of these emails?"

"No. I sent them."

Weiss folded his arms. "I hate to point out the obvious, but you could have just called us all into the break room around lunchtime. Then we could've had this chat over coffee."

"This conversation has to remain secret – from APO, the rest of the CIA, Dixon, Marshall, everybody." Sydney finally faced them, her face solemn and strangely remote. Weiss wondered when she'd stopped looking like a girl. "If any of you are uncomfortable with that, leave now."

Jack and Sloane both glanced at Weiss, but he stood his ground. Sloane said, "You've heard something from Vaughn, I take it. Some suggestion of his future plans."

"I have no idea what Vaughn's going to do next, and I don't care." The way she said that made Weiss believe it, and the night felt colder all of a sudden. "I know that somebody's trying to reassemble the Mueller Device. I know that the CIA wants us to research who it might be, and what they've done, and why. They want us to react. I want us to act."

"Sydney?" Jack cocked his head. Weiss wondered why the hell the man was smiling.

"We always take our cues from them – the Covenant, Elena, the Alliance, Third Faction, all of them. We let them pull our strings. I'm sick of it." As Sydney straightened up, her strength seemed to have returned. "We're going to take control of this situation. Starting now."


	4. Chapter 4

**Los Angeles, California**

 

Sydney studied each of their faces in turn, searching for any sign of doubt.

Her father was smiling at her, or at least coming as close to a smile as he ever did. She wondered if he'd still be pleased when this conversation ended, and doubted it. But he was the one she was least worried about; Jack had broken the rules for her so many times that she knew he would be just as willing to break them with her.

Weiss still looked like he'd been sucker-punched. She'd feared that he would be too torn between his loyalties to both Vaughn and the CIA to get with her program – but he'd heard her out so far, and she thought that if he were going to walk away, he'd have done it by now.

Sloane's eyes were narrowed; he hadn't turned his gaze from her once, and Sydney might have sworn he hadn't even blinked. It felt strange, relying on him now, and she had no intention of trying to make herself comfortable with the fact. Feeling comfortable around Arvin Sloane was a bad idea. But he owed her this, and Sydney was in a mood to call in old debts.

"Dad, you'll have to convince the CIA to keep APO on inactive status for as long as possible. Manufacture a security breach, whatever it takes. We need the time and the freedom to take the fight to Rambaldi's followers."

"What do you mean, take the fight to them?" Weiss shifted uneasily on his feet. "Are we going to raid their HQ or something?"

"If we ever find out where that is – for the Covenant or whoever else is out there – yeah, we are." Sydney gripped the carved handle of her father's cane more tightly in her hand. "But that's not what I'm talking about. Today, in the briefing, we determined that somebody is attempting to reassemble the Mueller device. To do that, they're stealing the artifacts or plans they need."

Sloane tilted his head. "And you want us to prevent these thefts? Given the sheer number of potential targets, that task is nearly impossible – certainly impossible, if you intend to use only four people."

"The CIA is going to tell us to prevent those thefts through research and diplomacy – all the things we've tried before, just to watch them fail. So we're going to do something else." Sydney took a deep breath and finished, "We're going to steal them first."

Jack began to nod, slowly; his attention had drifted from her to whatever gears were turning inside his head. She'd never been so glad to see his plotting at work. "Any thefts would have the potential to slow the Mueller Device's reassembly. With each additional theft, the probability of materially harming our opponents' plans would increase. And at any time, we could come upon an item or design that would be irreplaceable. If we take possession before they do, then they're unable to go any further. Until then, we would be buying ourselves considerably more time to identify and eliminate the other players."

Eliminate. The shiver that rippled through Sydney had nothing to do with the cool night breeze. But she did not let her mind admit so much as a name, envision even his face. "We'll have to break laws in every country we enter, and we'll probably make a few governments very angry. That's the reason the CIA would never approve this. It's also the reason I won't ask Marshall or Dixon to be a part of it; they care too much about ideals and not enough about facts. But I don't think any that matters to the three of you. Am I wrong?"

Jack raised one eyebrow, and if the mood had been any less desperate, Sydney might have laughed. Weiss still looked motion-sick and confused, but he shook his head. To her surprise, it was Sloane who steepled his hands together and said, "I admit, I have certain concerns."

"About breaking the law and lying to the agency?" Weiss' smile was incredulous, not happy. "Call CNN. We have a genuine newsflash here."

"I've always believed that neither honesty nor deceit is as important as attaining your objective." Sloane was a master of many things, Sydney decided, and one of them was understatement. "But if any of you are caught in off-book activity – you'll be reprimanded. I, on the other hand, will be sent to prison."

She folded her arms across her chest. "So you're telling me you're more scared for your own skin than in helping us."

"Not at all." He had the nerve to look offended. "I'll need you to cover me rather thoroughly, in order for me to be any use to you at all. I wanted to make sure that you were cognizant of that fact."

"What you aren't asking me is whether or not I'm setting you up." Sydney's eyes met Sloane's, and she felt the shift in power so suddenly that it was dizzying – like a minor quake that shook the walls so briefly you weren't sure it was real. For the first time in her life, she would have real power over Arvin Sloane, and they both knew it. It would be up to Sydney herself to use it differently than he'd used his power over her. "I'm not. You'll have to take that on faith."

Weiss took a deep breath. "I can't believe I'm in – but I'm in."

"Even if we learn that it is Vaughn behind this?" Sydney's voice didn't crack when she said the name. "Because we have to be ready for that."

"I'm never gonna be ready to find out Vaughn's a bad guy," Weiss confessed. "But the Mueller Device is what hurt Nadia. Nobody else is getting hurt like that, not ever, if I can help it. And no one is going to stand in my way. Not even Vaughn."

Jack leaned against the viewfinder, more relaxed than usual; the clandestine often brought out the less formal side of his character. "Now that we've agreed on our ultimate objective, where are we going to begin?"

She faced Weiss first. "I want you to track Elena Derevko's entire life – starting in Sevogda and working backwards. She actually built a Mueller Device, which means she knew more than anyone else on earth where to find what's needed. We have to follow in her footsteps, learn what she knew." He nodded, and she turned to Sloane. "You're going to reach out to your old Rambaldi contacts. We're done getting clearance every time you want to have a conversation with one of them; as far as they'll know, you're back in the game. You stand a better chance of finding out who we're up against than anyone. And you'll have to tell us where more of the artifacts are hidden and which items should have priority."

Although she had already asked Sloane to return to Rambaldi once, Sydney suspected it would never become less strange. He inclined his head, accepting the assignment.

The worst assignment came last. "Dad, you'll need to coordinate our movements in and out of the country; like Sloane said, we'll all need good cover, him most of all. You're better at that than anybody."

"Flattery is welcome, but suspicious," her father said, not unkindly. He knew she had more to say, and he clearly already expected that he wouldn't like it.

Sydney took a deep breath. "And I need you to investigate Mom."

"What?"

"Elena held her captive, I know." She had not forgotten how shaky and ragged her mother had been when they pulled her out of that hole in the earth – a mere shadow of the powerful figure Sydney remembered from a glass cell in CIA headquarters. Although her heart hurt to think of Mom in pain, this plan didn't involve giving anyone the benefit of the doubt. "But Mom had her own Rambaldi agenda for years, and we've never gotten to the bottom of it."

Jack's face was blank, which Sydney recognized as a sign of either deep surprise or deep anger, possibly both. "We know that she was attempting to assemble the Telling and find Nadia –"

"Which she could have told us about a LONG time ago. But she didn't. She built a Mueller Device too, Dad. It nearly killed me, so I remember it pretty well." Sydney did not allow herself to think about the person who had been running with her as they desperately tried to escape the waves. "And that didn't have anything to do with finding Nadia. If she were a stranger who'd done this, you know we'd go after her."

"She isn't a stranger." How was it that her father either believed in her mother completely or not at all? And why did he always choose the opposite of what Sydney needed him to believe at any given moment? "I agree, we should talk to your mother in greater detail about this, but I see no point in complicating the subterfuges between us at this point."

She balled her hands in fists, then made herself relax, pushing the tension somewhere else. "I understand what you're saying, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is finding and stopping Monarch. And right now, we don't have any idea who Monarch is. Maybe that's a totally unknown factor, but my hunch is, Monarch is somebody who's crossed our paths before. The manipulations, the lies – it's all too personal to be random."

"An intriguing theory." Sloane raised an eyebrow. "And you suspect Irina?"

Before her father could turn his glare at Sloane into cutting words, Sydney quickly said, "No. Not above anyone else, at least. Monarch could just as easily be another of the Rambaldi players we've met before. Olivia Reed. Thomas Brill. Gerard Cuvee. Julian Sark. Or – yeah. It could be Mom."

Jack folded his arms across his chest. "May I at least observe that your mother is the only reason we even know about Monarch?"

"And even then, revealing Monarch now might serve Mom's purpose. She's played those kinds of games before." More quietly, Sydney added, "The point is that I don't completely trust her, and that has to be good enough for you. I need you to do this, Dad. Are you in or out?"

He answered shortly, "I'm in."

Sydney suspected that particular conversation wasn't over, but for now, his consent would do. "We have the power to stop this." She had to believe that. Even now, when it was so hard to believe in anything, Sydney was determined to trust in her own strength, will and mind. "If you all commit to this absolutely, and we hold together no matter what – we can finally beat Rambaldi's followers at their own game."

The corner of Weiss' mouth lifted, just a little. "You know, you'd have made a great coach. That's one hell of a pre-game pep talk." He squeezed her shoulder. "I'm in too."

"As am I," Sloane said. "And I'm – honored to have been asked."

_Surprised is probably more like it,_ Sydney thought. But she knew the skills she needed, and Sloane's desire to avenge Nadia had to be as strong as her own; she didn't doubt her decision to include him. "Okay. We communicate about this only when it's necessary, and nobody keeps secrets about what we're doing from anybody else in this group. Understood? Then we're done."

Sloane strolled toward his car, apparently completely at ease. Weiss ' shoulders were bowed with an invisible weight – the knowledge that they were probably going after Vaughn – but he began trudging downhill quickly enough.

Her father didn't move. Sydney brushed a few windblown strands of hair from her face, waiting for him to speak.

At last he said, "You know I would prefer not to treat your mother as an enemy in this."

"You've been comfortable treating her as an enemy before." Sydney remembered identifying a corpse as her mother; even though it had only been a stranger, she now knew what Irina's dead body would look like. That knowledge could not be erased. "Be a shame if you lost your nerve now."

Jack's face changed, revealing the flaws in the façade. "What I have done in the past is precisely why I am unwilling to make the same mistakes in the future."

Sydney remembered walking through the streets of Sevogda with her family around her. Despite the Mueller Device in the sky and the wreckage all around them, she'd known no fear. In her innocence, she had thought them invincible.

Now Nadia was in a sleep from which she would never awaken, and Vaughn –

Even the deepest love could be wrong.

"We trust no one else with this. No one. Not even Mom." Sydney forced herself to keep looking her father in the eyes, despite their mutual disquiet. "As long as she believes in Rambaldi, we can't count on her to share our agenda. That means you can be on her side or my side. You can't be on both, not now."

It took him several seconds to process that. Jack finally said, "I'm on your side, Sydney. Always."

He turned and left without another word. Sydney watched him go until his dark overcoat disappeared into the night. Then she used his cane to return to her own car. It was the only time she'd ever come to the observatory at night and left without looking at the stars.

 

**Outside Lhatse, Tibet**

 

Ice pick, pull, dig the right foot in, dig the left foot in, brace, breathe –

Vaughn had never cared for ice climbing, nor had he done much of it in recent years. But at least it demanded focus. While he struggled to ascend, he had no energy left for worry, doubt or regret. The world beyond this mountain ceased to exist, and he was alone –

Well, nearly alone.

"You shouldn't have come," Sark said. He was as far ahead of Vaughn as their tether allowed, and could have made the top by now if Vaughn hadn't slowed him up. "Your mobility still isn't what it ought to be. If you had faced that fact, I'd have made the trip in half the time."

"I have to see her again sometime." Vaughn was breathing hard, but managed to get the words out. "And I'm ready to get it over with."

"I should think you'd postpone this as long as possible. Is that why you're dawdling down there?"

"Shut up," Vaughn said, swinging the ice pick again.

Within another half hour, they had struggled to the level they sought; as Vaughn made his way through the blowing snow, he saw the gold and orange prayer flags flapping in the fierce wind. Visibility was so poor that he only saw the monastery when they were within a few feet of it, a carved-wood palace that was no less magnificent for lacking windows.

"Been here before?" Vaughn spoke mostly to cover his own awe.

"Not this particular monastery, no," Sark replied. "But one very like. Rambaldi's work is taken seriously in this part of the world."

They rang the heavy brass bell outside, and within seconds, saffron-robed monks opened the doors and welcomed them in, apparently impervious to the cold. The hall they entered was filled with dragons – painted on silk screens, carved on the ceiling beams, woven into the rug on the floor, all of them breathing fire. As Vaughn took off his gloves to rub some feeling back into his hands, Sark said, "We're here for the lady. She should be expecting us."

As the monks guided them deeper into the monastery, Vaughn tried to get a handle on whatever it was he was feeling. He knew it wasn't guilt, but unfortunately, so would the woman at the other end of the hall.

With Sark, Vaughn stepped through two white silk curtains into a small meditation room. In the center of the floor sat Olivia Reed. His former mother-in-law had none of the polished glamour he expected from her; her hair was pulled back into a stark knot, and her clean-scrubbed face looked drawn. As their eyes met, Vaughn readied himself for violence; Olivia was a formidable fighter, and after the trek he'd had, he didn't stand much chance against her.

But she remained still, one hand on her calligraphy brush, still in its inkwell. "I told you I would be in Australia two months from now," Olivia said, speaking to neither of them but to some indeterminate space between their heads. "I thought that would suffice."

"We need answers sooner than that," Sark said. "Specifically, we need the present location of the Di Regno heart. We thought we knew where it was hidden, but a rather unfruitful trip to Riyadh has convinced us otherwise."

"Riyadh? Your intel is at least a year old. Elena Derevko removed it for her own purposes long ago, then sold it off to the highest bidder when she was done."

Vaughn figured he might as well speak now, so his first words to Olivia since he had murdered her daughter were, "Who was that bidder, and what did he do with it?"

Olivia began painting a character on the parchment in front of her, using long, sloping strokes that Vaughn recognized as an expert's. As she created the symbol for "solitude," she answered, "The bidder was a scholar of sorts – not anyone I expect to emerge as a force. He's probably just staring at it as it thumps in a box. Rather like something out of Edgar Allen Poe, don't you think?" She pursed her lips. "You could have left me until Australia."

"We're here now." Sark's impatience was too clear, but if Olivia noticed, she took no sign. "If you value your solitude above Rambaldi's work –"

"I've never valued anything less than this solitude," Olivia said, and the woozy, slightly deranged grief Vaughn heard there made him wonder if possibly her mind wasn't what it had been. Her eyes drifted across their faces, settling on nothing. "Sometimes I think I'll go mad. Do you know what that's like?" She smiled. "You do, Michael. I know you do."

"So come down the mountain already." Vaughn intended to shut that topic of conversation down immediately. "Lead us to the Di Regno heart."

"I promised to mourn my daughter here until the date given in Rambaldi's notebooks." The date in question was, in Vaughn's opinion, not all that significant – but different theories held sway over different people. Olivia pushed her first character aside and began painting another. "Then I'll return, and at that time I'll have my own work to do. You can find the Di Regno heart without me; all you have to do is find Davidi Geva. That should be easy enough."

"Thank you, Olivia." Sark bowed his head. "Please know that I share your grief."

_Son of a bitch couldn't let it go unsaid_, Vaughn thought. He kept his face still.

The ink from Olivia's brush was still wet enough to shine in the lanterns' light; slowly it took the form of the character for "revenge." Olivia whispered, "The work you're doing is important, Michael. The Mueller Device must be brought to its full potential. Rambaldi's work is more significant than any grief, any anger, any retribution."

Vaughn refused to look at Sark, to reveal any emotion, to do anything but stare at her.

"But after you're done –" Olivia shut her eyes. "Nothing will stop me from finding you. Nothing."

"I'll be waiting," Vaughn promised. She looked so much like her daughter.

 

**Sevogda, Russia**

 

"American! Journalist!" Shouting always helped foreigners understand English, right? At least that was the way Weiss' cover would think, and therefore act. "_Newsweek_? You know _Newsweek_, right?"

"Mickey, please." His photographer and translator put her hand on his shoulder; when she wore the short, spiky red wig and the chunky black glasses, it was easy to think of her as "Pauline" instead of Sydney. "Let me do the talking, okay? That's why I'm here."

"Everybody knows _Newsweek_!"

"Mickey, CAN IT." She gave the still-unsmiling guard her best grin – which, as Weiss knew, was pretty damn good as grins go – and began explaining their cover story. The visas were all in order, the permits more or less authentic; a quick phone call to the green-balloon cowboy had gotten them all the paperwork they needed. Weiss still didn't feel 100 percent certain about the situation, though. The Russians had locked Sevogda down tight, and Western journalists with good documentation were still Western journalists. Their high-grade clearance might not matter if somebody lower down the ladder freaked out.

But no freaking occurred. After Syd did a little more Pauline-style fast-talking, they were waved through by guards who looked a little less unhappy than before. Weiss muttered, "That smile works on all nationalities, huh?"

Her only reply was, "I can't believe you don't speak Russian."

"It wasn't required at the Academy, okay? Recommended, not required. I took Farsi instead. So sue me."

Sydney had already moved on to the task at hand. "Dad's intel said that the Russians still haven't found Elena's materials. They never had the exact locale. That means we have a better chance of getting to it through the wreckage than anyone."

"I'm ready to shovel, sift or whatever." He smoothed down his false mustache as he glanced at Jack's cane in the back seat. "I know I've nagged you about this umpteen times, but as long as we're about to get to the heavy-lifting potion of the program – are you sure you're up to this?"

"You can do the heavy lifting." It didn't sound like a concession. "But I'm sick of waiting at home for answers."

Weiss still wasn't satisfied with that reply, but probably it was as good as he would get. In the two weeks that they'd been working on Project Sydney – it had no name, but Weiss sometimes gave it that shorthand – she had been like a woman transformed. There was no softness about her, no humor, not even sadness. Sydney went through her days without smiles, without chit-chat. She wanted to hunt down Rambaldi's believers and take away everything they held dear; beyond that, Weiss wasn't sure she felt anything anymore.

Surely that couldn't last. Just the thought of it – well, it made him sadder than he'd been when he'd believed Sydney was dead. But Syd would snap out of it eventually. Had to.

Despite the months that had passed since the destruction of the Mueller Device, the city center of Sevogda was still a disaster area. Buildings struck by the Mueller Device's waterfall were still damaged, and he and Sydney kept stepping over shards of broken glass. So far, the authorities seemed to have concentrated on cleaning up the dead bodies first; Weiss wasn't going to argue with those priorities. But a few haunting clues still remained: a shoe here, a bookbag lying next to a lamppost there, the shadows of people's resting places.

"Was this place as creepy when you were here last?" Weiss muttered.

"Lots creepier. Trust me."

He took the mental image of the battered city before him, added zombies, and shivered. "I believe you."

Sydney paused only once, when they walked by a stone angel lying on the sidewalk, only partly shattered by its tumble to earth. "Fallen angel," she said, leaning on Jack's cane. "Mom said – Rambaldi prophesied something about angels falling on the night the Chosen One and the Passenger would battle."

"You're not starting to believe in this crap, are you?"

"No. God, no." She glared at him, and Weiss wondered if, down deep, she really meant what she said. Maybe part of her anger these days was rooted in the fear that Rambaldi's followers were right. As long as it was just fear – he could deal with that. But after Vaughn, he really couldn't handle losing another friend to all this prophecy bullshit.

They finally got to the patch of rubble that Sydney said had been Elena's headquarters, and they started to dig. Weiss made sure he did the heavy lifting. Slowly, they got through a half-crushed corridor; mold had grown on virtually every flat surface, and the smell was so thick and musty that Weiss breathed through his teeth. When the shafts of sunshine became almost nonexistent, Syd snapped on her flashlight and continued leading him deeper into the compound.

After he shouldered aside a fragment of drywall, the smell hit them: death. Grimacing, Weiss tugged his sweater up above his nose. "Dammit. They didn't find the bodies down here."

"There's only one body down here," Sydney said. Her face was more set than ever; she used the cane to boost herself over a slab of concrete and descend even deeper. "Come on."

The flashlight's beam found the body first. It lay on the floor, black and wet – more liquid than solid, at this point. A few bones showed through one of the hands, which had been tied behind its back. That, plus the long, dark hair matted to the floor, told Weiss he was looking at all that remained of Elena Derevko.

A surge of loathing hit him, so strong that it nauseated him more than the smell. This woman had betrayed Nadia – had taken in a little girl desperate for love and used her viciously, right up until the end. He'd eaten food Elena cooked and smiled at her while she worked to ruin Nadia's life all over again. For a moment, Weiss hoped that his lifelong agnosticism was off-base; it would be worth going to hell if he knew he'd find Elena there.

Sydney paid no attention to her aunt's corpse, pulling the flashlight over to the charts on the wall. "This stuff all took water damage, but we might be able to use some of it. Start collecting."

Weiss started going through the few papers that were more than mush. Most of it flaked into nothingness at the first touch or had markings faded past the point of legibility. But one leather-bound notebook retained readable pages – warped pages, but readable. He held up his prize, saying, "Hey, check it out –"

A heavy clank of metal nearby made them both start. Sydney swiveled the flashlight back the way they'd come. "Hello?"

A man appeared, holding up his hands as if begging their pardon, smiling in a congenial way. "Excuse me, this area – it is not permitted."

"If you're a Russian official," Sydney said, "why did you start questioning us in English?"

"You speak English, yes? I take this in school." He kept nodding, as though they were agreeing with him. Weiss wondered if the [I]Newsweek[/I] story would work again. "You should leave this area, soon, please. Come with me."

The beam of the flashlight drifted sideways from his face, along his outstretched arms. Sydney's voice was hard. "I don't think we're going anywhere."

In that instant, Weiss saw what she saw: the Rambaldi symbol tattooed on the guy's hand.

The Rambaldi follower leaped forward, and Weiss was able to tackle him. The mold-slippery floor didn't work for fighting, though, and within two seconds, Weiss was struggling just to stay upright. The man's face in front of him still wore the same bizarre smile, like he didn't know to drop that part of the act –

\--and then an icepick jabbed out through his throat, the silver point sticking out toward Weiss. Dropping the gasping man, Weiss scrambled back and saw Sydney yank the ice pick out. As the Rambaldi follower choked to death on his own blood, Weiss watched her face. Emotion flickered beneath the surface, but she fought for control, and won. Once the guy had died, she wiped the gory pick against his jacket, then held up the cane – and clicked the icepick back into place. Apparently the handle was detachable as a weapon.

Weiss said the first thing that came to mind. "Should've figured Jack wouldn't own a regular old cane."

"There's a GPS transmitter at the tip," Sydney said, studying the cane. It was easier for her to look at, Weiss thought, than the dead body on the floor. "It has a few other features, too."

"Get-well present from Marshall?"

She nodded, taking a deep breath. "This guy might not be alone. Let's get what we need and get out of here."

It wasn't that Sydney had killed the guy, Weiss thought. A Rambaldi follower figuring out what they were up to – that could wreck the whole program, and endanger all their lives in the bargain. And it wasn't that she didn't care about killing him, because he knew she did. It was that she was trying so hard not to care. Once you started trying not to care in this business, you could get really good at it, fast; Weiss had always been careful about that, but apparently Sydney was through being careful.

Not for the first time, he wondered just what they were getting themselves into.

**

**Los Angeles, California**

 

A rare October rainstorm had brought darkness to the city a few hours before sunset. Jack tried to consider the unexpected cover a good sign, but it was difficult, with lightning crackling through the sky every few minutes.

His car was parked on a back alley in a neighborhood he rarely visited; it was near an internet café, which allowed him to easily tap into their wireless. Jack's laptop screen was a pale gray, a chat room waiting for words.

Irina was late. She was never late.

He invented jokes he might make about this – asking if she'd forgotten their passwords from before, that sort of thing. Jack never imagined actually saying any of them to her (most of his jokes were silent, rather than spoken), but it eased his worry.

Finally, just when concern was becoming alarm, his screen lit up.  Handel4me wants to chat privately with you. 

Jack breathed out, now haunted by new reasons for unease. He typed only: THANKS FOR COMING.

_I always come when you call._

Why did that sound odd? Frowning, Jack typed: I NEED TO TALK WITH YOU SOON.

_Talk now. That's why we're here, isn't it?_

THIS CONVERSATION WOULD BE BETTER HELD FACE-TO-FACE.

_I think you're just trying to get me into bed again. _

Irina did sometimes flirt during these chats, and on a memorable night almost four years ago had gone considerably farther; Jack still remembered how difficult it had been to focus as he drove home afterward, thinking dazedly that he had considerably underestimated the allure of cybersex. But this didn't feel like flirtation. Something was wrong, and Jack could not guess what it was. Without any sound or physical cues, he was even blinder than normal when it came to Irina Derevko.

We can't trust her, Sydney's voice said in his head, so loudly it seemed real. He tried not to listen.

I WOULDN'T SAY NO. BUT THIS IS BUSINESS, NOT PLEASURE.

_Business, then. I'll be in Paris in three weeks. The same hotel we used three years ago. Ask for Laura Nilsson's room. _

Was she using her old alias to taunt him? On the other hand, it might be a romantic gesture – a harkening back to other hotel rooms they'd taken when they were in college and longed for long nights together without roommates getting in the way. Given that this was Irina, any gesture could contain both nostalgia and venom; the two were inseparable, for them.

I'M LOOKING FORWARD TO IT.

_You should be. _

That felt more like it. Now, the duplicity troubling Jack was his own.

NADIA'S CONDITION HASN'T CHANGED.

_I know. _

I'M SORRY.

_How is Sydney?_

Jack wished he could have talked with Irina about the bitterness in their daughter's eyes. One of the few goals he was certain he and Irina shared was for Sydney to escape with fewer scars than her parents had earned.

But he couldn't give Sydney another reason for bitterness by betraying her. He had to remain silent.

SHE'S RECOVERING. STILL USING A CANE, BUT SHE'S BACK AT WORK.

_You never talk about emotions if you can help it, do you? _

Jack knew a leading question when he heard it. Irina sensed his reticence; she always knew so much more than he told her.

OUR DAUGHTER RARELY SHARES HER FEELINGS WITH ME. YOU KNOW THAT, OR YOU SHOULD.

_Probably because she knows you'd be incapable of responding to them properly. _

Accurate though this was, it still stung.

Obviously, Irina wanted to pick a fight. Jack could think of several potential reasons why she might want to do this, and some of them overlapped dangerously with Sydney's theories. What if Irina had brought him close to her just long enough to get him off guard? What if she'd accomplished what she meant to do (such as what?) and now needed him no longer? Was this irritation more a sign of her true feelings than their night together in Rome?

Jack wasn't inclined to believe that, but then, what he wanted to believe about Irina Derevko was often different from what he should have believed about her.

No matter what, it would be wisest not to respond to the provocation.

SYDNEY IS STRONG. SHE HASN'T GIVEN IN TO GRIEF. YOU DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT HER.

A long pause followed this.

_Thank you. I needed to hear that. _

This sudden calmness might be a sign that her anger was spent – or just another phase of her game. Then again, Jack understood that he was playing a game too, one with rules set by his daughter.

_Anything else I should know?_

Irina was on her guard. He needed to take her off her guard, and strangely, the best way to accomplish this might be by telling her the truth.

Slowly, Jack typed the words I LOVE YOU, then hesitated with his finger above the return key. Sheets of water rippled across his windshield, rendering the whole world a blur. Although he did not think Irina doubted his love for her – it was as much a fact as the power she held over him – saying such a thing suggested certain promises. Promises he was possibly in no position to fulfill.

Then he decided that second-guessing was for schoolboys and fools, and hit return.

At that instant, the words _Have to go -- Goodbye _appeared in the chat room, and "Handel4me" vanished from the screen. I LOVE YOU popped up a second later, for only Jack to see.

 

**Casablanca, Morocco**

 

The desert air was dry and yet sweet. The night was windy, which was good; they all wore goggles to protect their eyes from the sand, and the wind would swallow up the sound of their approach.

Right now, all Jack could hear was Sloane's voice in his ear, on comms.

"You've put the past two years to good use." On the infrared viewer in their tan-colored van, parked on the street nearby, Jack, Sydney and Weiss all watched the red dot that was Sloane pacing along the far wall of the compound. "Far better than I have."

"We wondered about you, Sloane." The oily voice of Gerard Cuvee disgusted Jack nearly as much as it had the first time he'd heard it – even though that had been in a Kashmir prison cell, while Cuvee taunted him and manhandled Irina. "A few people really thought you'd given up the game for good."

"That's what I meant for people to think. It served my purposes at the time. In order to defeat Elena, I knew I would need CIA resources. My objective has been achieved. So I see no further point in this charade."

Sloane moved further away from Cuvee, the two red points on the grid getting further and further apart.

"Is that our cue?" Weiss murmured. Like Sydney and Jack, he wore tan-colored desert gear; improbably, the three of them looked like a perfectly matched team.

"Not yet." Sydney, her hands on either side of the computer screen, didn't budge. She stared down at the monitor as though it were Cuvee, and the interrogation at hand were her own. Then again – wasn't it? "See what else Sloane can get from him."

"If Sloane thinks the situation is incendiary, we should respect that." Jack always gave Sloane due credit for self-preservation.

"I'll know when it's time to move in." His daughter focused even more intently on the computer screen. Although her behavior was entirely correct – this was her op, and in the end, her judgment prevailed – Jack wished they would move in already. He was anxious for action in a way he rarely permitted himself; maybe it was his loathing for Cuvee goading him on.

He worried about Sydney, though. She could walk without a cane now, but not for extended periods of time; if this had been a CIA op, he would never have allowed her in a combat scenario. But the CIA had other agents, hired mercenaries, other luxuries. This was their work alone – and as such, every person was needed. So Sydney said.

Jack had considered arguing this point with her, but he knew how far he'd get.

After some spirited denunciation of Elena, Sloane was finally able to bring Cuvee back to a useful topic. "Recently it's come to my attention that a minor player is – well, perhaps not so minor any longer. Are you familiar with Monarch?"

"Not so minor." Cuvee said it thoughtfully, and that might have been curiosity or caution. "My path has crossed Monarch's, yes. As has yours, I believe."

Sydney's eyes flickered toward Jack, and he nodded: her hunch was right. Monarch was someone they knew.

"Is it Cuvee?" she whispered. "This could be grandstanding –"

"He'd be more cautious." Jack would have liked nothing better than to name Cuvee as Monarch – simultaneously putting their prey in their sight and exonerating Irina from the suggestion of collaboration – but his tactical mind told him a different story. "He knows who Monarch is, but it's not him."

Sydney nodded, accepting that. Weiss' hands tightened around his rifle; apparently he didn't care who Monarch was as long as they got to take someone out, and soon. Would he feel better once he'd avenged Nadia Santos? Jack decided to watch and see.

Sloane's voice was dry. "As you've already made the acquaintance, perhaps you'd arrange an introduction. Or a reintroduction, if you will."

"I don't think I shall. Not yet. You have to prove yourself again, Sloane; you've kept company with the Bristows too long for my comfort." Jack felt the foul slickness of Cuvee's voice on his skin as the man continued, "I made Irina prove herself, after all – though, of course, the tests are rather different in your case."

"I should hope so." Sloane sounded almost amused. Jack would've wanted to punch him for that, if he hadn't been busy wanting to punch Cuvee much more.

Her face impassive, Sydney said, "Cuvee's not going to spill, not tonight. Let's go in."

"Sloane's not quite in position." Weiss pointed this out as if it weren't that important a consideration, really.

"Wait." Jack's role in this operation, apparently, was to act as the voice of caution. This was not generally one of his strong suits, but he would do his best.

The other infrared dots at the perimeter of the compound became more important than Sloane and Cuvee – there were only a handful of guards, none of them on high alert, but all the same, it was important to know precisely where they were. Sloane, still making conversation with Cuvee, moved back to his mark at a point when the other guards were all relatively far away: the perfect opportunity.

So there was no reason not to go in. Yet Jack felt a strange reluctance as he watched his daughter's profile, stern and pale in the Moroccan dark, staring at her target.

But Sydney's movement was as clear and individual as a battle flag – two quick hand motions, and she propelled them out into the night. It took less than half a minute to cross the road, less even than that to angle himself beside a window. Although Jack wanted to keep his eyes on Sydney – to protect her – she positioned herself on the other side of the building, and the only way to help her now was to get this done as fast as possible.

The internal count that had begun at Sydney's last gesture marked its last:_ three, two, one –_

Jack whirled around and fired, almost blind, shattering the window and one of the bodies within. Blood spattered against his hands, hot through the gloves, but Jack paid little attention to this. The heavy slam he heard behind him would be Weiss going through the door; Jack ran for the opening, reaching it only moments after Sydney darted through.

The blurry figured of the guards were targets, not men. Jack kept firing, kept moving, mowing through the place with a disregard for blood and noise that went against most of his training. But they were getting the job done; figure after figure fell, and they were moving ever closer to the inner chamber where Sloane and Cuvee were.

Just as Jack ran up to that door, Sloane staggered out, his hair mussed, his tie askew; it was strange to see him disheveled. "Cuvee?" Jack shouted.

"He knows. On the move." Sloane was panting, like a man who'd just had to dodge for his own life.

Jack ran the way that Cuvee would have had to go, only to find an elevator shaft that went down into the earth. He swore – their blueprints hadn't picked up this area of escape.

Beneath him, in the open hatch of the elevator, he could see Cuvee looking up. Perhaps that was recognition in his eyes; certainly it was surprise.

Sydney appeared at his shoulder, limping and furious. "We're going after him." She reached for the elevator cable. "Clip me on, and –"

"Sydney, no." She was in no shape for it, but Jack knew other arguments would work better. "Cuvee is probably armed, and we don't know who or what is down there."

"He's getting away!"

"Let him go!" Jack grabbed her arm, just short of shaking her. "We have intel. That's more important than revenge."

She glared at him, breathing hard, a few strands of hair stuck to the sweat on her cheek and brow. Obviously his daughter didn't agree – but just as obviously, the moment to strike had passed. Cuvee was far beneath them now, his escape made.

They made their way back through the hallways, meeting up with Weiss just as they got to the compound's central chamber. All three of them burst in at once. "We surrender!" shouted one of the surviving men inside – no, the only surviving man inside. Next to Jack, Sydney raised her rifle; this was not a mission that permitted captives.

He fired his gun before Sydney could, killing the man instantly.

The room had apparently been used as a kind of makeshift communications center; computers blinked all around them, a tempting trove of information to decode. Jack knew the task would take more time without Marshall, but they could manage it. So intrigued was he with the hard drives that he completely missed the Web cam – until Sydney found it.

"He's filming us," she said.

"It doesn't matter." It didn't. Jack thought it would probably be hours before Cuvee would be able to review whatever the camera had filmed; by then they could be gone.

"Don't guess it does." But Sydney slowly faced the camera head on. Her stare was as cold and hard as Jack had ever seen; it might have been Cuvee himself, standing a few feet from her. Then she pulled out her gun, pointed it straight at the Web cam, and fired. It exploded in a shower of sparks and plastic. "Let's download what we need and get the hell out of here."

Jack did her bidding, but he was disquieted by her hollow bravado. He told himself that they were at least a few steps closer to their goal, and that once they'd reached it, Sydney would be safe again. Herself again.

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

Dixon's eyes followed Sloane through the office all day, as on most days. His paranoia would have been offensive, had Sloane not actually possessed a secret. As he sat at his desk, performing the more mundane duties left him as a subordinate in an inactive division, Sloane found himself rather hoping that Dixon would follow up on his doubt, investigate, search for the truth. The man's astonishment when he learned that this secret was one Sydney and Jack shared – well, it would be worth any inconvenience.

Midafternoon, he casually dropped a memo on Sydney's desk that, to most observers, would look like a standard inquiry about an old source. Sydney, using the Derevko encryption, would soon decode it and receive the latest intel he'd pulled from Cuvee's files, directing her to get to Tel Aviv as soon as possible.

She barely glanced at him or the memo, not even giving him the polite smile she would have for a mail clerk. Sloane tried to think of that as just part of their cover.

That night, at home, Sloane pulled out his files and began the day's real work in earnest. Jack, Weiss and Sydney had each funneled him copies of various Rambaldi documents, and Jack had even been able to pilfer a few of Sloane's own notebooks from the SD-1 days from their place in CIA evidence files.

Mostly he worked from memory; very little of what he had ever learned about Rambaldi was lost to him. But that familiar handwriting, the arches and slopes of Rambaldi's diagrams and drawings – they all served as tangible reminders, and even inspiration. Surrounded again by this work – his life's companion for decades – Sloane could lose himself in the moment, unhindered by remorse or loss. If it was not happiness, it was as close as he ever expected to come again.

_What a good, obedient worker you are, _said an internal voice that he'd tried very hard not to listen to for a while now. _How well you follow orders. Perhaps someday you'll go up a salary level for all your exemplary service. _

Ridiculous, of course, for him to feel as though these were menial tasks. Probably fewer than ten people in the world could understand Rambaldi's notations with the same depth Sloane could. This was a scholar's task, an honorable pursuit –

\-- a job set to him by another.

The fact that his taskmaster was Sydney, that her reliance was concrete evidence of the trust he'd hoped so long to regain, did little to console Sloane. This work, however noble, would eventually end. At that time he would become just another of the drones at APO, one too famous for substantive field work, too distrusted to move into management at the agency proper, and – Sloane had never used this word in relation to himself before – too old to carve out an entirely new role for himself.

Sloane had always been ambitious, so much so that it was difficult for him to recognize the quality; his ambition was too completely a part of himself to ever be viewed objectively. At times he had scorned Jack, who had always prized his autonomy more than authority over others – no way to get ahead. Now Sloane wished he could content himself with as little.

Jack would be his superior officer. Those who distrusted and disliked him would be his peers, not even obligated to give him politeness, much less deference. Sloane knew he owed the world his penance, but that didn't mean his hairshirt didn't chafe.

When the doorbell chimed, Sloane felt as though he were awakening from a deep dream. His dismay was still more clear in his mind than the reality of his home as he walked from the study to the foyer and opened his front door to admit Jack.

"Next time you encode a message asking for a meeting, you might consider a more clandestine location." This, apparently, was Jack's idea of hello. He did not take off his overcoat as he walked deeper into the house, trusting in Sloane to follow. "I'd be surprised if Marcus Dixon didn't have this place under regular surveillance."

"All the more reason to meet here. Conversations at the waterfront, or in parking garages – well. They arouse suspicions. But what could be more innocuous than two old friends having a drink at home?"

Jack's sideways glance revealed just a shade of his old humor. "I don't think 'innocuous' is a word we get to use in relation to each other. But I trust the offer of a drink was sincere."

Although Jack did not sit down with his Scotch, the amber liquid nonetheless gave their conversation a sense of conviviality. "The disk contains copies of all the Rambaldi materials confiscated from Anna Espinosa upon her capture. I'm no expert in these things, so it's up to you to determine what's of value and what's not."

"Naturally." Sloane smiled from his place in his leather chair. "I haven't had the chance to say so before, Jack, but I wanted you to know how much I appreciate your trust in me. Yours and Sydney's."

As Sloane had anticipated, mentioning trust instantly put Jack on guard. But he said only, "We need someone who understands what Rambaldi's cultists believe. That's you."

Rather slippery of him, actually. But Sloane was mellow enough, with Scotch and companionship, not to mind. "Rest assured – everything I do, I do for Nadia's sake. Our daughters haven't led us wrong yet, have they?"

"Never," Jack said, though he lacked conviction. Sloane debated whether to probe further, then decided against it.

"We need to delve further into Rambaldi's prophecies," he began. "If we want to know what Michael Vaughn currently believes."

"Isn't that what we're doing?"

"I mean that we need to bring in another source. I realize that Sydney has forbidden you to discuss this matter openly with Irina, but –"

"I'd prefer for all your private meetings with my wife to be in the past, thanks."

"You misunderstand me." Sloane moved them smoothly past Jack's territorial outburst. "I meant that we might reach out to Katya, instead."

"Katya Derevko? Why?"

"I suspect she knows almost as much as Irina herself. Although she's loyal to her sister, I suspect she can be induced to keep any meetings secret for a while – if the motivation is right. It may represent our best chance at learning exactly what the Derevko sisters knew and when without tipping Irina off."

Jack took two steps closer to the fire to lean his forearm against the mantel; its glow flickered across his face, and though firelight flattered most people, it made Jack's face harsh and forbidding. "What makes you believe that Katya is more trustworthy than Irina?"

"I don't. But I think Katya would be easier to lie to regarding the true reasons for any questioning or secrecy." A nod from Jack was as good as a concession. "Will you reach out to her, or shall I?"

In the firelight, Jack's smile was strange. "I'll leave that to you."

 

**Tel Aviv, Israel**

 

Even the desert was cool at night, and Sydney was grateful for her denim jacket as she made her way through the stone-paved streets of the oldest quarter of the city. Tel Aviv's skyscrapers and city lights were far away; here she could still find stone and sand.

She held her father's cane in her hand, but she wasn't using it unless and until she got tired. Although her hip still ached sometimes when she pushed herself, the injuries were almost healed now. _ Time to quit being a baby,_ she told herself. _Time to get over this. It's been almost four months._

Four months. Just four months ago, she had been a happy bride-to-be, driving toward Santa Barbara with her hair down and Bob Dylan on the stereo and Vaughn next to her –

Sydney closed her eyes and stopped walking; she leaned on the cane, drawing not on its strength but on hers. It took strength not to listen to the doubts in her head.

_(He was going to tell me – he was TRYING to tell me, and if that SUV hadn't hit when it did, maybe everything would have come out right then. How bad could his secrets be, if he thought he could tell me and make everything okay between us? _

How many times did he save my life? How many times did he nearly die trying to do that? Rambaldi couldn't be the most important thing to him, not if he was willing to die for me.

Maybe he wasn't setting me up. Maybe Vaughn was just pretending to be – to be the person I needed _him to be -- )_

Slamming the cane into the ground, Sydney used the pain against her palm to make herself focus. She had other memories of Vaughn too – of telling him that her mother was dead while he pretended to be surprised, of his murdering Lauren to cover his own skin and framing her father in the process, of even lying about his own name. Nobody who lied that deeply about everything – even about who he was – could really love anyone.

All her happiness with Vaughn had only been an illusion. She understood that at last, and eventually, she'd accept it.

Half a block away, some teenagers came stumbling through the street, either drunk on beer or heady with youth and fun. Sydney watched them through narrowed eyes. If this errand didn't go well, they might be in harm's way – but it would probably be all right, as long as they came no closer.

But Sydney didn't intend to take any chances. Her meeting with Davidi Geva was unplanned – at least, as far as Professor Geva was concerned – and he might react violently upon discovering that his visitor meant to take the DiRegno heart.

She ducked into the doorway of a nearby art gallery, already closed for the night. There she could wait, out of sight of the students, until they were out of harm's way.

Once the giggling had faded into distant echoes, Sydney walked the remaining few steps to Professor Geva's home. She lifted her hand to knock, but as soon as she made contact with the wood, the door slowly swung open. Nobody stood in the hallway.

Sydney bent down and examined the lock; the metal was slightly bent around the edges, and two fine grooves were still new enough to be powdery.

Somebody had broken in here – certainly today, and probably within the past couple of hours.

Soundlessly, she stepped into the hallway, double-checking each dark corner with her eyes as she leaned the cane across the doorway. Then her hands were free to withdraw the small pistol from the holster beneath her denim jacket; thus armed, she put her back to the wall and began sliding along it, sinking deeper into the house.

Hallway: empty. Dining room: the same. A cabinet with glass doors revealed rows of crystal, all unbroken; if a struggle had happened in this house, it had not come to this room or probably this floor. Kitchen: also empty. Should she grab a knife? Sydney debated it, then decided to trust in her pistol. If it failed her, then she probably wouldn't have a chance to use a knife anyway.

Her heart beat too fast in her chest as she began inching up the stairs, one by one. Sydney prayed not to find a step that squeaked.

If she were doing this for the CIA, she'd have backup right now, not to mention options. She could assess the potential danger and abort. But this was her op and nobody else's – and if she didn't get the DiRegno heart now, Rambaldi's followers would win. That wasn't going to happen.

The most dangerous moment was when her head began to appear at the top of the steps, the moment when Sydney's visibility was still flawed but any intruder's would not be. She took those few steps more quickly, hating every move – but nobody waited for her in the top hallway.

Bathroom: empty. First bedroom: empty.

Then, as she began moving toward the next doorway, she heard it: _Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. _

A heartbeat.

Swallowing hard, Sydney eased toward the door; it was cracked open, and as she angled toward it she could see a small sliver of dim reddish light. _ Lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub. _ She put her elbow to the door, keeping her hands gripped on her pistol, and smoothly pushed it open, bringing the gun around to fire –

But she wasn't seen. The man in the room wasn't looking at her.

Clad all in black, he was only a silhouette, kneeling on the floor before the DiRegno heart. His body obscured the heart itself, but the unearthly glow outlined him; it was the room's only light. Sydney could see the wall safe open above his head.

_Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub._

Sydney took another step toward him, wondering whether to take him captive or simply kill him here. She knew what her father would do – what the smart move was – and yet she wasn't ready to kill in cold blood. Or was she? Didn't she have to be?

She inched forward, willing out all feeling, giving herself courage, _lub-dub lub-dub _one more step –

The man swung around violently, smashing his interlocked fists into her knees. Pain slashed up Sydney's leg to her hip, and her balance failed her; the wall thudded hard against her shoulder, and her grip weakened around the pistol as she fell – not enough to lose it, but enough that she couldn't immediately fire.

His boot slammed down toward her, but she rolled over, just avoiding the blow. The DiRegno heart throbbed just inches away, and she was bathed in its strange red light.

The man froze – just for an instant, but enough for Sydney to look up and see Vaughn staring down at her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Tel Aviv, Israel**

 

_Sydney –_

For a split second, Vaughn's mind could register nothing beyond her name, her face, her presence here in the same room.

Then it registered her foot catching him square in the gut.

He stumbled backward, his entire weight thudding against the wall. The DiRegno heart throbbed directly beneath him now, somehow louder than it had been before; in the dim red glow of its light, he saw the pistol in Sydney's hands, the tightening of her grip even as she braced herself in the corner.

Already, Vaughn knew: He would let Sydney kill him rather than kill her, if it came to that.

But it wasn't going to come to that.

He lashed out with another kick, knocking the gun from her hands. Sydney dropped, rolled and swung up onto her feet again, out of his range, just a couple of steps from the pistol. Her hair fell across her face, and Vaughn could not read her expression or guess at his own.

For a few breaths, they faced one another, uncertain and shaky. She looked so thin and pale, and yet still unbearably beautiful. Later, when he had time to think about this, Vaughn knew the memory of Sydney at this moment would devastate him: close enough to touch, and yet only lashing out at him in anger, anger he deserved. But shock kept that reaction at bay; he felt strangely calm, as though they had simply turned the corner at APO and run into each other in a hallway.

This despite the throbbing pain in the ribs she'd cracked again for him.

Their eyes met, and in that instant, Vaughn knew they could drop this battle, talk things out, reveal the truth. All he had to do was speak – and damn them both.

He didn't. The moment passed, and her jaw clenched.

"You're gonna get out of my way," she said.

And let her take the DiRegno heart to Sloane? Vaughn smiled at her, utterly without mirth. "Can't happen."

Sydney smiled back, and it was worse than any tears he'd ever seen her cry. "Oh, yes, it can."

**

The crunch of Vaughn's jaw against her fist made her own face ache – right there, right beneath her incisors.

_That's crazy,_ Sydney thought, until she remembered the time he'd hit her. She'd helped him steal a nuclear coil and trade it for Rambaldi information – helped him go rogue and betray the CIA, risking her life and nearly killing Jack in the process. It felt as though the impact had been delayed until now.

In a split second, she was spinning around, locking her hands together to slam into his chest – but Vaughn was faster than her, ducking beneath the blow. Then her belly caved in, knocking out all breath and thought, as his elbow speared her beneath the sternum. Sydney let herself be knocked backward, using the force to gain distance from her opponent.

Her opponent.

Six months ago, Vaughn had met her at the train station and danced with her to the Muzak. Just six months ago.

"I'm destroying the heart," she panted, struggling through her the slicing heat in her hip. "And I will not let you stop me."

Sydney pretended to sag back, and Vaughn paused, just long enough for her to lean even further toward the wall where the pistol lay. Even as her palm closed around the grip, lightning-fast, she heard him swear, saw the blur of movement, and her training took over.

When her mind was paralyzed with fear – or any other strong emotion – Sydney's body still knew what to do. She raised the gun.

**

Vaughn threw himself sideways, falling onto and over the bed without grace, without any purpose other than getting the hell out of the way.

The gunshot was deafening, reverberating against the walls of the small room so that his ears hurt.

_She really did it – she really fired – _

He ran, not away from Sydney but toward her, gambling that her shock would be as great as his own. She curled into a defensive posture, like she was supposed to, but Vaughn's only goal now was the door, the stairs and escape. Hitting the jamb on his way out, Vaughn could feel new pain lancing upward into his collarbone, but he kept going, taking the stairs two at a time, going as fast as he could without falling.

"Vaughn!" Sydney's footsteps were pounding behind him, and she was faster, Syd was always faster. "Don't make me –"

The sentence went unfinished. He saw a sliver of moonlight through the open door and bolted for it.

Something hard smashed against his kneecaps, sending him spinning into the street; Vaughn caught his weight on his hands and felt the skin give against the cobblestones. He'd tripped over a barrier across the door. Syd had booby-trapped it, of course, simple and fast. His girl was smart.

And she would have caught him in that instant, if the jeep hadn't come speeding up, brakes squealing. Vaughn vaulted for it, grabbing the rail though the vehicle hadn't fully stopped. One of his legs banged against the side, but he was able to shove his body through as the jeep accelerated again, pulling them away.

"I'd ask you how it went," Sark said as he whipped the jeep around a corner, "but I have a feeling there were complications."

"Do you ever drop the snide routine?"

"No. I believe in consistency." Sark's eyes were narrow in the rear-view mirror. "Who the hell was that?"

"I didn't get a look at his face. Just get us out of here, all right?"

"You don't have the DiRegno heart. Obviously we'll have to go back."

"We're not going back," Vaughn said, trying to make it forceful, but the renewed ache in his side made that difficult.

"The heart –"

"It's taken care of, all right?"

Sark paused, one hand on the steering wheel, the other still reaching toward the glove compartment, where a gun waited. No matter what, Vaughn didn't intend to let Sark realize what Sydney had seen; he didn't know how Sark would react and realized it would be too dangerous to find out. He wondered if he'd have to attack Sark while they were still speeding, risking a fatal crash. He braced himself, preparing to do it.

Instead, Sark drove on, taking them from the old city to the new one, the road smoothing beneath their tires as neon and electricity brightened up the world around them.

"Sometimes I tire of trusting you," Sark said lazily.

"I think that's my line."

"You'll be out of commission for another few weeks, I think." Vaughn couldn't catch his breath enough to answer Sark, which more or less proved the guy's point for him. "I'll have to undertake our work on my own for a while. So I suggest you make yourself comfortable with trusting me."

This didn't even deserve a response. Vaughn didn't turn his head to look back the way they'd come, but he watched the rear-view mirror the rest of the drive, though he knew Sydney was long since too far away to see.

**

Sydney came through the doorway in time to make out the shape of a jeep or truck through the night, but the taillights were already too far away to be caught. She ducked back into the doorway to shield herself against bullets and remained there until the motor's sound had died away.

Gravity claimed her, dragging her down, and for a few moments she sat heavily on the doorstep, shaking so hard she could barely close her hand around her father's cane. It had slowed Vaughn down, but not for long. Not long enough.

_If I had caught him,_ Sydney thought, _ would I have done? Could I have turned him in, sent him to prison? What if I'd shot him upstairs? I could have killed him. I wouldn't have meant to do it – but I could have done it. _

Then it occurred to her how insane it was to worry about how much she was willing to hurt Vaughn when he'd just proved – with every new ache and twinge in her battered body – that he was willing to hurt her.

_I thought I'd learned the worst, that there couldn't be anything more terrible to learn. But I never thought he'd do something like that. I'm still his fool. _

She shut the door and used the cane to get back up the steps; Sydney knew what she had to do first, before anything else. As she reached the top of the stairs, she heard it again, more infuriating now than frightening: _lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. _

The DiRegno heart continued to beat, throbbing alone in the center of the dark bedroom. Rambaldi's most ghastly creation remained trapped between life and death, glowing a pale red that lit Sydney's skin like fire as she dropped to her knees by its side.

Then she pulled off the handle of her father's cane, revealing the icepick, and stabbed the DiRegno heart.

It was warm.

Tissue fluttered against her hand, no longer in a beat but in a struggling rhythm that reminded Sydney of her own pulse the times she'd nearly been drowned. That desperate stop-and-start – she knew it well. It was the beginning of the end. Sydney stabbed it over and over, shredding the DiRegno heart until at last it lay still, never to beat again.

 

**Buenos Aires, Argentina**

 

The papers of "Sophia Vargas" fluttered atop desks and on the floor. Diagrams for the Mueller Device hung on the wall, just beside a map of Argentina obviously made for school-age children. An ashtray balanced on a windowsill, lumpy and asymmetrical as kids' handicrafts often are; the indentations for cigarettes were just the diameter of a little girl's thumb.

Nadia might have made this for the woman who ruined her life.

Weiss knew he ought to feel better about what he'd found. After more than a month of tracing Elena Derevko's life, seeking out her hiding places and mostly coming up empty, he'd hit the mother lode in what was both the most obvious and most reckless place of all for her to hide anything: her home.

In this cottage was Elena's clothing, most of it dark, simple and functional. It reminded him somewhat of the kind of stuff Irina Derevko was always shown wearing in intel pictures. Bottles of good wine lay in the rack; a book (Moby-Dick) sat on the bedside table, a red ribbon marking her place.

"So," Weiss said to the ashtray, "after she destroyed half the world, Elena was planning on coming back here."

Her confidence was more infuriating than laughable, even after Weiss had seen her dead body; Elena had come too close and done too much harm. At least it worked to their advantage now. The materials she'd left behind to await her return were now his for the taking.

However, without full CIA resources at his disposal, dealing with this stuff was actually sort of complicated. He could arrange to have some of it shipped back to the States; Jack had worked up fake papers identifying Weiss as the next of kin of "Sophia Vargas," which was so ironic it was kind of sick, but would allow him to claim her possessions – and ship them slowly, in crates, so that they would get to Los Angeles in about two months. So it was up to him to grab the most important items first.

It had taken some sifting around to start digging out the useful information – it turned out that twenty years' worth of school records were a great place to hide papers – but Weiss hadn't gotten through CIA training on good looks alone.

Forget the map of the Mueller Device, he decided, though he'd pinned it up triumphantly when he found it just a few hours ago; they already had one of those. Instead, Weiss concentrated on looking for information on Nadia. Of course, that meant going through a few hundred kids' immunization records, grades, their marks in areas like friendliness and courtesy --

Apparently Elena took her cover role seriously. That, or she just got off on running other people's lives. Weiss was betting on the latter.

But one drawer turned out to have a false bottom, and to contain a box with a lock any agent could break. Weiss opened it to reveal yet another manila file folder, one that read SANTOS, NADIA. Her file was three times as thick as any other. The abnormal documentation in the file was strange stuff indeed – astrological charts, some of them superimposed over Rambaldi drawings, and a formula-heavy document labeled CHIMERA PROTOCOL – but Weiss could deal with that. When you pried into Rambaldi, you found strangeness. This was one of the truisms of his life. Sloane could decipher it all later.

What were harder to look at were her finger-paintings, notes in her childish handwriting, the photos of a smiling, gap-toothed little girl with pigtails. As much as it hurt to see them, Weiss meant to save every one, but he had to concentrate on the task at hand first.

Weiss put the entire file into his case and turned his attention to the rest of the house. Clothes here, towels there, paperbacks that really appeared to be the books heralded on their covers, a TV, VCR, DVD, a load of old movies –

Wait a sec.

Kneeling down by the TV stand, Weiss sought any abnormality – and found the thin line in the wall behind the TV. He pressed against the wall and felt a slight give; then the hidden panel turned, revealing a locked metal cabinet. Weiss tapped the door. The plastic clatter answering inside was familiar – more videotapes and DVDs. Who locked away their videotapes?

Weiss considered that for a second, realized he'd feel like an idiot if he was breaking into Elena Derevko's super-secret porn stash, then set to work picking the lock.

Everything was unlabeled. Nothing to do but watch. First tape: Filmed through infrared. A shadow huddled in the corner of a cell, shivering from cold or terror. No sound. A sharp movement made the prisoner jerk around, and the red-on-black profile told Weiss he was watching Irina Derevko in custody. He shut it off instantly; that was something for Jack and Sydney to get pissed about later.

Second tape: the UCLA campus on a nice sunny day, viewed through jerky surveillance footage. A laughing girl with a ponytail was hardly recognizable as Sydney, because she looked so young and so – well, happy. Will Tippin walked beside her, shaking his head at whatever terrible joke Syd had just told. Would Syd like that tape or hate it? Weiss figured he'd just turn it over with the rest, no editorial comment.

Third tape: a little girl was tied to a chair, pleading with unseen men as she strained against the straps holding her down.

Weiss put his hands on either side of the TV screen, gripping it tightly as he watched her trial. Time after time, they would bring the needle to her, and Nadia would cry, tears rolling down her cheeks, begging in Spanish to be let go. Time after time, they injected her anyway, convulsing her tiny body in agony before a strange, eerie stupor took her over. Then her hands began writing, scratching out symbols, letters, drawings – anything, everything, but all of it worth more to her captors than Nadia herself.

Again, and again, and again. He sat there, his hands prickling with the static electricity from the screen, unable to turn away. All these people had watched Nadia suffer, and it had meant nothing to them. She deserved a witness.

When – after four hours -- the videotape ran out, Weiss rose slowly to his feet, went to the bathroom and vomited. Carefully he rinsed out a washcloth and held it to the back of his neck, steadying himself.

Nadia's story had begun like this. Elena had meant for it to end with her death, or Sydney's; for now, it stopped in a hospital bed with Nadia trapped in a sleep that didn't end. Her parents and her sister had no hope for her, the doctors had no explanations, and Rambaldi's believers said that there would never be anything else, never anything at all.

They didn't understand anything, and Weiss was going to prove it.

He had never known what hatred was – not within himself, not ever – until this moment. Rambaldi was the first hatred of Weiss' life, and he knew that from now on, he had no purpose more important than proving that son of a bitch wrong.

 

**Paris, France**

 

Irina stood at the window of her hotel room, not watching for Jack but simply enjoying the play of the sunset against the Seine. She was in that curious state of serenity that only existed at the center of extreme anger, anticipation or pain, a kind of eye of the hurricane with which she was intimately familiar. Jack's arrival would unleash the storm – though what kind of storm, and why, had yet to be determined.

She could simply have asked him questions, but Irina had been both interrogator and subject too many times to trust in that process. For answers, she didn't need questions – she needed tests.

Her reflection on the window was almost transparent, just a shadow on the city, but she could still make out the faint line of her smile.

The knock at the door jolted adrenalin into her blood, and a hunger large enough to contain anger and lust welled up inside. Irina opened the door, pulled Jack inside by the lapel of his coat and slammed it shut with the same shove she used to slam Jack against the wall.

"Irina –" She cut off anything else Jack might have said by kissing him, hard, pushing her tongue inside his mouth, scraping his lips with her teeth. Jack kissed her back, first hesitantly, then with more passion as his mind and body caught up with hers; she delighted in his shiver as she ran her fingernails down his chest, hard enough for it to hurt even through his shirt. But when he tried to pull her closer – to match her roughness with his own – Irina jerked back, grabbed his wrists in her hands and pinned them to the wall so hard the door rattled in the lock.

"No," she said, as if correcting a dog. Then she kissed him again, even harder, so much so that it was a deliberate provocation. With her body she demanded that he fight her, so that his surrender would have to be all the greater.

Jack tried to push his arms away – he was strong enough to do it – but when Irina gripped his wrists tighter, he relaxed and let her hold him there. Good. That was good.

"Are you mine?" she whispered against his throat, grazing the line of his jugular with her bite. "Do you belong to me?"

He hesitated before answering. Irina liked that; Jack understood that this wasn't merely lovemaking banter, then, even if he still didn't realize the test at hand. It made it much more satisfying when he quietly said, "Yes."

"Will you prove it?" She clutched his wrists harder, so hard she suspected her fingernails might be drawing blood from his skin. He needed to know that his reply could cost him, either way.

Jack exhaled, breath ragged. "Yes."

Irina dropped his wrists and stepped away from him, a hint of a swagger in her walk. Wisely, Jack said nothing. She studied him through half-shut eyelids, delighting in both his arousal and his confusion. "Take your clothes off."

He complied, not in the manner of a man seeking to please his companion but simply, just the way he would if he were alone. She remained fully dressed. Irina's excitement, banked down inside her at first, began to blaze more freely. They had been married for 35 years, and had spent 10 of those years sharing a bed every night; their bodies held no secrets from one another. But this was a game they had never played – not with Jack submissive – for the simple reason that Jack didn't enjoy it. Loss of power, even as a game, disturbed him.

But this was no game, and for now his enjoyment didn't matter.

When Jack was naked, he stood there waiting, unsure. His eyes followed her as long as possible while she walked behind him, running her fingernails down his back, digging in so that red lines traced her path. "I'm going to tie you up." She cupped his ass in her broad palms, enjoying the tension in his muscles. "I'm going to use you." As she dipped lower, he breathed in sharply – but he didn't flinch. Irina smiled. "Might hurt."

"Irina --"

"Don't talk." Even speaking out loud gave him the illusion of control. She walked in front of him again, studying his face as she reached into her pocket and pulled out the long black scarf. It was strong enough to hold someone even against his will, at least for a little while. Stretching the cloth between her hands, Irina whispered, "Last chance."

Jack stared at her, and beneath the surface of his stony face she could see the struggle between desire and repulsion, between love and anger. Anger seemed to be winning, and for a few seconds Irina was nearly certain that Jack would break their covenant and tell her to go to hell. She almost wanted him to. If he did that, then she would know he was her opponent, not her ally, and opponents were easier to deal with.

But then Jack held out his hands – jerkily, as thought having to struggle against himself even for this – wrists together, ready for the rope.

Irina sighed, exhilarated and surprised at once, wound the cloth around his hands, binding them expertly before pulling it tight with a snap.

 

When she untied the cloth an hour later, her hands were trembling and she fumbled with the ties. Once it was loose enough, Jack helped her, though he was just as shaky. Freed, he rolled onto his back, breathing hard, his skin covered with sweat. Their bodies were both hot, so much that their touch seared, but Irina lay next to him anyway, relishing the burn.

Jack spoke to the ceiling. "That was – new."

"You enjoyed it more than I thought you would. By the end, at least."

"You were certainly prepared." Irina had prepared for any number of reactions afterward, but she hadn't imagined humor, however rueful. Sometimes Jack's surprises were pleasant ones. "How did you get -- all this -- through customs?"

"As if I go through customs."

"Of course. I ought to have known."

She kissed his mouth for the first time in a while, tasting a pale hint of blood from where Jack had bitten his lip.

For a very long time they lay together afterward, saying little. Her wrath had not abated, but it had settled into something she could control. She had never seriously doubted her hold over Jack or his love for her, but verification – mixed with revenge, and even mutual pleasure -- had its charms. Given that, she could bear whatever she had to bear. Their relationship was about endurance, in the end.

Just when she thought she might drop off to sleep, thus avoiding any further discussion altogether, Jack nudged her. "Not yet."

Propping herself up on one elbow, Irina faced her husband. "Ready for another round, Jack? So soon? You're aging better than I thought."

"Obviously you've spoken to Katya."

The suddenness of his move surprised her more than it should have; she should have known that Jack would only remain at her mercy for so long. "Yes."

"But this wasn't punishment." Jack's legs were still entwined with hers, their bodies still intimate despite the new battlefront. "This was – you said it was proof."

She shrugged with one shoulder. "Our marriage isn't conventional – to put it lightly." Irina had first given this speech to herself, so she knew how it needed to sound. "It's been a long time since we had any right to expect fidelity from each other. What I own of you isn't your body – any more than you own me."

Jack shook his head. "I'm supposed to buy that?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"This isn't about the fact that I went to bed with someone else. This is about the fact that I wanted to hurt you."

"I know when it happened. You'd just found out about Sloane, and I suppose that was reason enough for you."

"That affair was decades in the past. I shouldn't have let it cloud my thinking." His confession was about more than Katya now, and although Irina had longed to hear him explain himself – abase himself for his attempted murder of her – even this limited apology repelled her. It required her to remember, and Irina did not want to remember. "I hurt you when I should have been looking for you, and I regret that."

"Apology accepted."

"I don't think you mean that."

"I don't think you can afford to question whether or not I mean that. For that matter, neither can I." She considered him in the darkness of the bedroom, comparing his face now with the younger, gentler man she'd left behind. This Jack was her creation, one of her most dangerous and one of her best. She clutched at her own share of the blame; if she was partly at fault, then she had always been at least partly in control. "I should have told you about Sloane myself. Not doing so gave Elena power."

"I can't pretend I would have behaved much better even if I'd heard the truth – about Sloane -- from you," Jack admitted.

"I didn't keep my silence because I was afraid of you." Irina allowed an edge of mockery; he deserved it for thinking such a thing. "Jack, from the time I found out I was pregnant until just a few weeks ago, I never knew who Nadia's father was. I realized Sloane was a possibility, but I had thought – I had hoped she might be yours. I couldn't bring myself to tell you when I didn't know."

"You said, until a few weeks ago. After Sevogda." She nodded. "So, at APO – when you said that, about wondering where Nadia got her talents –"

"Just false hope. Misplaced faith. Our specialty."

Jack breathed out, not quite a sigh, and the silence enclosed them again.

As they lay there, Irina battled the urge to walk out – and wondered why she was fighting that instinct in the first place. It would be smarter and safer to rejoin forces with Katya, the Derevko women working together again as they had in the previous generation and should have done in this one. Jack made her vulnerable; if Irina let him, he would make her weak. She had thrown away the sweetness of their parting in Sevogda, gambled it like a thousand-dollar chip at a baccarat table, and pulled yet another losing hand. It had been foolish to think that she and Jack could reclaim anything from the wreckage of their love.

"I should go," she said, her face pressed against the pillow.

"Not yet."

"I don't think you get to tell me when I leave."

"No. But we need to talk. It's about Sydney."

The anger went somewhere else inside her. Irina sat up in bed, pulling the sheet around herself – not in modesty or as a shield, but as a way of making herself ready for business. "What's happening with Sydney?"

For the next hour, Jack detailed Sydney's plan, what they had done so far and the limits of what they knew. Irina, simultaneously concerned for her daughter and engaged by the possibilities, added what information she could – names, places, dates. Jack's memory would preserve every word exactly, so there was no need for either of them to rise from their warm bed. The tenor of the conversation changed, slowly shifting into cooperation; they worked together so well that Irina wished they'd had more opportunities. Only at the very end, when Irina asked how else she could help, did Jack reveal that he should not have told her any of this at all.

"I didn't build the first Mueller devices." Irina sat upright against the headboard, tugging the sheet tightly against her chest, though it was no longer Jack she wanted to shield herself from. "Cuvee did that. That's the reason I had to learn about them and get close to him again, to get a chance to destroy them myself. Fortunately, Sydney made that unnecessary."

"I believe you." Jack said it simply, little guessing how much it did to soothe her bruised feelings. "But Sydney – until she's come to terms with what Vaughn did, she's not going to trust anyone easily. Not you, and not me."

Sloane was a part of Sydney's plans, and yet she had set her father on her mother. Even after Sevogda, when they had all fought and nearly died by each other's side, Sydney could believe that her mother would betray them. Irina had known for years how much she had relied on Sydney's faith, and that this faith – a gift, still not fully earned -- could fail at any moment. But this failure struck her more deeply than she would have wanted to think possible.

When she trusted herself to talk again, she said only, "You've betrayed her confidence, telling me this."

"I've never allowed Sydney to dictate the ways in which I take care of her. I don't intend to start now."

Despite everything, Irina smiled. "Really, she should know better."

"Give it time," Jack said, of Sydney and of everything else.

**

**Boston, Massachusetts**

 

Sloane's invitation to Katya Derevko had dictated the form that the RSVP should take – a form that required him to visit Boston's Athenaeum. Technically, the trip could have lasted no more than five minutes, but if he were being watched by the CIA or any other source, such a short stay in a famous place would be tantamount to advertising that this was an info drop.

Besides, he had research to do, and few places on earth were more congenial to quiet reflection than the Athenaeum.

With copies of the Rambaldi papers in his satchel (alongside a ink cartridge that would detonate at a signal and destroy them instantly, if needed), Sloane walked companionably with one of the conservators through the great hall. Painted the color of cream, the arched ceiling perfectly captured their voices while masking their footsteps against the wooden floor. "It's always an honor to have you here, Mr. Sloane. The Omnifam fundraiser three years ago is still talked-about, you know."

"A splendid occasion, though of course that was due to your handiwork, Gretchen, not mine." She blushed appealingly; he knew how much to flirt in order to get things done, but not to create unnecessary entanglements. "Thank you for allowing me to come in after hours."

"The least we could do."

"Before I settle in to work, I'd like to look around a bit – if you'll indulge an old friend."

"Please do," Gretchen said, gesturing him toward the stairs. "If you need anything, just let me know. And the fifth floor is a wireless area now, in case that's helpful."

He would not need computers for his research, but it was good to know the option was open. Sloane smiled at her once more before he headed up the steps, smile fading even as he walked.

On the third floor was the King's Chapel Collection, priceless antique books and papers positioned beneath portraits of the original donors, William and Mary. Quickly Sloane found the _Biblia Polyglotta _and knelt down to the floor. Beneath the case was an envelope of the finest linen-weave paper, containing a note that read:

_Meet me in Karachi, one month from today. I'll find you. _

Apparently that was a yes.

Tucking the note securely within his satchel, Sloane chose a desk and spread out his papers to work. Although he had already examined most of Weiss' latest finds at home in Los Angeles, new surroundings often brought new perspective.

The trove of information Weiss had brought back from Buenos Aires had affected them all, in different ways. Sloane had noted that each of the other three members of their group had refused to view a different set of footage: Sydney would not watch her mother's captivity, perhaps because of her perverse determination to seal herself off from pity. Jack would not watch the surveillance tapes of Sydney, no doubt because he could not endure the fact that Elena had gotten so close to his daughter.

And Sloane had refused to watch the videotapes of the young Nadia's interrogation, because he did not need the tapes to know what the injections did to her. The memory was enough to shame him forever.

More important than the videotapes were Elena's notes, and those had already proved more than worth the risks Weiss had taken to retrieve them. Already they had provided ample clues – Olivia Reed would have to be questioned, and Sydney's next mission would take her to Innsbruck – and Sloane was tantalized by the promise of more.

When he had laced the Omnifam grain supply, Sloane had envisioned building a Mueller Device and using it to awaken an era of peace. Used as Rambaldi intended, the Device would have essentially have done to the world what the injections of serum did to Nadia: Awakened them to greater potential, knowledge beyond their former comprehension, a sense of transcendent joy and connection. Rambaldi's genius, too vast to be contained within any other single human mind, would at last take root in the populace; technology would have leaped forward decades or even centuries almost immediately.

Only through loving his daughter – through coming to realize that her love was more meaningful because she doubted him, because she had the free will to reject him and yet did not – had Sloane learned to put aside the illusion of a created harmony. Yet the vision still held its attractions; Sloane had blamed himself for many things, but never the desire to use Rambaldi's device as the master had intended.

Elena, however, had taken a device meant to be used with the finesse and beneficence of a surgeon's scalpel and wielded it like a thug's switchblade. She had opened up minds and given nothing, only taken – sense, reason, any human faculty. At this point, he would put no cruelty past Elena Derevko, but he still did not understand why she had done what she'd done. What did she gain from it? While pretending to work with her, Sloane had been forced to pretend that he knew – but he never had, neither then nor since.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Sloane took up a new set of papers. Revelation would come in time; it wasn't something anyone could achieve at will.

He opened up one of the few reports he hadn't examined yet, a project from 1989. This one appeared to link to Rambaldi only tangentially. However, it concerned Nadia, and that meant it concerned Sloane.

_The masking technology allows us to locate and use restriction enzymes to create, in essence a false chimerism that should last throughout the subject's life, but should create no other biological effect –_

It went on in this vein for some time. Sloane had studied several sciences and could even have challenged Marshall in physics, but this area was not one of his particular strengths. He weeded through this, making sense of it phrase by phrase.

As it began to make sense, he went even more slowly. His throat tightened; his pulse quickened. He could feel his jaw clenching, though from anger or pain he could not easily have said. The truth – if this was the truth – was the last thing Sloane had ever wanted to believe.

And yet he had to believe it.

The library seemed to have gone cold around him. A marble bust of some long-forgotten Brahmin seemed to study Sloane with contempt. He steepled his hands in front of him on the desk, the way he had once done when he was in charge of APO or SD-6 – in the days when he had controlled anything at all.

Sydney had demanded that they all tell one another the complete truth of their investigations, and Sloane wanted very much to reward her trust. But he felt quite certain that this secret belonged only to him.

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

Jack had known from the beginning that Irina's knowledge would be useless to them unless shared with Sydney.

When he had told Sydney that he'd discussed their investigations with her mother, he'd expected to be frozen out for a while. This expectation was fulfilled. But as two weeks turned into three, he became impatient; when three weeks became a month, Jack's limited patience ran out.

He waited in front of her house one weekend in his car; in the late afternoon, she got into her own car and drove toward the beach. While following her, he made no attempt to disguise what he was doing. She didn't try to evade him either. In their relationship, this counted as progress.

Given the gray day, the late hour and the cool December weather – the low 50s – the beach was nearly deserted. Sydney walked almost out to the ocean and waited for him to approach. Sand crunched softly beneath his leather shoes as he went to her. Her arms were crossed in front of her chest, the wind blowing her hair back as she watched the sun set on the water.

"One of the minor inconveniences of being in a conspiracy," he began, "is that you actually have to talk to your co-conspirators."

"I told you not to tell Mom the truth."

"She helped us. You can't deny that any longer."

"It doesn't matter. I told you not to tell her, and you did."

"It does matter," he insisted. "You're confusing determination with petulance."

Sydney turned to him, whip-crack fast, her rage instantly changing from potential to kinetic. "Confusing? You want to talk about confusion? You're the one who spilled all our secrets to a Rambaldi believer because of your emotions. Not me. Somehow she made you feel – threatened, or weak, or whatever it is that it takes to actually make you crack. So you told her everything just to straighten things out with her."

"The information Irina gave –"

"Stop. Just stop, okay? I can't believe this you're trying to justify this as tactics." Sydney hugged herself more tightly, and Jack briefly considered offering her his suit jacket. The gesture was unlikely to be accepted, so he said nothing. "My whole life, I wanted you to open up to me. I needed you to stop being cold and distant, needed it so badly, and you never did. Dad, I used to pray for that when I was a little girl. On my knees, beside my bed when I should have been asleep. Nobody answered, not God and not you."

Jack's failures as a father never ceased to haunt him, but rarely had Sydney shamed him with them so directly. "Sydney –"

"But now – now, the one time in my entire life that I've needed you to be the cold-hearted bastard you're so good at being – you've gone soft. You would never let me in, but for Mom – the one who made a fool out of you, remember? The one who betrayed us and abandoned us? You'll give her everything. Even if it means betraying me."

It was Jack's turn to stare out at the waves, struggling for control. Despite what Sydney had just said, nobody – neither Irina nor anyone else – ever had the ability to pull at his emotions so powerfully.

He understood why Sydney was shutting herself off from the world; he had walked that path too long and too well. What he didn't understand was why he could not do so any longer. In some ways, Jack found his behavior toward Irina as perverse as Sydney did.

Only now did he realize that he had in fact betrayed his daughter – not through sharing their secrets, which had done her good and not harm, but through damaging her trust in him. However flawed that trust might be, it was almost all that Sydney had left. In his desperation to salvage his relationship with Irina, Jack had made Sydney's distrust even deeper. He'd worked so hard to avoid one mistake that he had made another, perhaps a worse one.

Long ago, he'd given up the idea of achieving any skill at fatherhood; all the same, sometimes his ability to fail Sydney astonished even him.

When he could be sure that his voice would be steady, he began, "I can't undo the mistakes I made when you were small, Sydney. I wish I could, more than you will ever know." She was blinking fast now, but her eyes were for the horizon, not for him. "But even when I was most – confused, and angry, and mistaken – I never did anything that I thought endangered you. And I never would."

"I know that." The concession, and the welcome softness in her voice, were gone in an instant. "But I'm a grown woman, Dad. I get to make these decisions now. Not you."

"You brought me into this project to get the benefits of my experience and my judgment. They tell me that your mother is an asset to us, not a threat."

Sydney raised an eyebrow. "Was it your experience or your judgment that spent the weekend with her in Paris?"

Jack had never discussed his sex life with his daughter, nor did he intend to begin now or ever. "I brought back intel. Everything Irina told us checks out. I'm not asking for blind faith, Sydney. I'm asking you to look objectively at demonstrated facts."

For a time she considered what he'd said, and Jack waited for her to weigh it in full. At least before, when they'd had their fallings-out and confrontations, Jack had usually known that Sydney had someone to turn to – Francie, Danny, Will, Vaughn or Nadia. All those people had left her life now through tragedy, and he was struck as never before by how alone she was.

The only other time Sydney had been so isolated – when she first returned from her two lost years – he had offered his companionship for whatever it might be worth. She had let him in, at least a little. Now, when her desolation was even more complete, he was powerless to do anything but watch.

At last she said, "You're in love with her – again, still, I don't know. I don't care. Talk all you want about tactics, but that's why you did what you did. And love's not a good enough reason." Sydney's jaw was set as she turned to face him. "Last summer, I would have sworn that Vaughn would never do anything to hurt me, ever. I was as sure of that as I was that the sun set in the west. Six weeks ago, in Tel Aviv, we tried to kill each other."

Jack would not soon forget the sight of Sydney's bruises, or the hot rage that had filled him upon realizing that Vaughn was the one responsible. "Vaughn's guilt does not transfer to your mother. She told us the truth, and we've proved that."

"This time. So I'll forgive you – this time." She stepped closer to him, placing her hands on his arms, a touch that had nothing to do with comfort or reconciliation. "Dad, I want you on my side. But if you ever go against me again – ever, for any reason – I swear that I will cut you out of this project and out of my life. Forever. You know I can do it, so you should know that I will."

Sydney did not have the power to cut him out of her life – Jack knew himself capable of tracking her everywhere, of defying her every wish and order to protect her, even from afar. But she had the power to make their relationship even more remote than it already was, and that Jack did not think he could endure again. He breathed out, trying to let the tension go. "Understood."

She hesitated, as though she had been expecting more of a struggle. When she let go of his arms, she stepped backward and said only, "It's too cold to be out here. We should go back."

"All right." They made their way across the beach in silence, as though their reconciliation had never occurred. His tread was uneasy on the shifting sand. Spurred to make conversation of any sort, Jack said, "If I'd known we were coming here, I wouldn't have worn these shoes."

Her mouth quirked in an unwilling smile, but her eyes were still sad. "You're not the kind of guy who likes sand between his toes."

"I don't know. Once – when I was younger – well. It's been a while." Jack tilted his head, studying her. "Why did you say that?"

"No reason. No reason at all."

 

**

 

Sydney did not accept her father's invitation to dinner. Her heart was too full of what they'd talked about for her to make polite conversation, but at the same time, she couldn't bring herself to return to the silence of her apartment. She drove around the city for a while, losing Jack fairly quickly, before she realized where it was that she wanted to go.

After hours, with APO on inactive status, the office was nearly deserted. Sometimes Marshall came in on Mitchell's Gymboree nights, but this evening only security staff were on hand. On the medical level, one nurse sat at the monitoring station, reading a paperback novel. As Sydney's footsteps echoed against the tile, the nurse put the book down guiltily – but she had no reason for guilt. Just a single patient, whose condition never changed and never would.

Nadia's room looked much the same as it had two months ago, when Sydney last visited. A bright crocheted afghan lay across the hospital sheets, perhaps a concession to the fact that it was winter; both that and the fresh tulips at Nadia's bedside testified to Weiss' continued vigilance. Other than that, nothing had changed, least of all Nadia herself. She lay still, hands folded over her belly, just where Weiss would have left them.

"Hi," Sydney whispered, sitting in the chair by Nadia's side. "I know I haven't been here in a while. I'm sorry."

She took one of Nadia's hands in her own, and although her sister's fingers were limp, just the warmth felt comforting. Her skin was soft because of the lotion; her arms still had muscle tone because of physical therapy. "Weiss takes good care of you, doesn't he? Maybe that should be my job. I would come here more often if it didn't just – cut me open, every time –"

Tears welled up in her eyes, the tears that Sydney had forbidden herself to surrender to ever again. But the sight of her sister's ruined body could still break down her defenses.

"I'm trying so hard, Nadia. I want to be strong for you. For all of us. But the whole world has turned upside down and I don't know how to make sense of it anymore. My engagement ring is in the wall safe, beneath a lot of other junk I'll never use again. Vaughn's not the man I thought he was. I'm lying to Dixon and telling your dad the truth. And my dad –" Sydney's sniffle was half a laugh. "—any minute now, I'm going to find my dad carving his and Mom's initials in a heart. It's not pretty."

Nadia would have laughed at that; she had radiated carefree happiness virtually every moment that a specific crisis didn't demand otherwise. Sometimes, Sydney had envied her sister the joy she'd lost herself. Now Sydney couldn't believe she'd ever been so cheap as to envy what she should have cherished, what was now lost. When she looked at Nadia now, with that vibrancy utterly gone, Sydney could no longer deny that she was looking at an empty shell.

_The Passenger's death will arise from an act of love,_ the prophecies said. Maybe that meant Sloane's gunshot, though the kinds of love his act testified to were not elements Sydney wanted to admit. The one thing Sydney was certain of was that Rambaldi didn't have to be much of a prophet to see why Nadia would die. All her family's acts of love seemed to prove fatal in the end, hers included.

"I need you." Her words came between sobs. "I need you to remind me how to feel. Because I think I'm forgetting how. I always promised myself I would get out of this business before – before I got hard, but it's already too late for me. It's too late."

Slowly Sydney lay her head on her sister's bed, still clutching Nadia's hand as though it were a lifeline – but Nadia could no longer save her, no more than she could save herself. Sydney wept until she had no tears left.

 

**Innsbruck, Austria**

 

The nightclub was on the seedy side, even by Sydney's jaded standards. Seminude girls in cheap costumes (cracked pleather, torn lace) gyrated halfheartedly on light cubes dating from the 1980s. Most of the people on the dance floor looked like tourists, laughing drunkenly and snapping random photos with their camera phones. Sydney was grateful that she'd worn a disguise.

Her violet-blue wig fell halfway down her back, every strand tipped in black. She'd painted a deep purple stripe from temple to temple, covering both eyelids and the bridge of her nose, and then coated her lips with the same. Her black dress dipped low in the front and had no back at all; she hadn't bothered with the double-sided tape. On her right wrist, a heavy leather band concealed a retractable garrote. The heels were too high to run in properly, something she usually avoided, but tonight the disguise had seemed more important.

Tonight she was going after one of the few known copies of the Circumference page. According to her mother's intel, the trade would take place here – a man named Gerhard Strauss intended to pass the document off to an anonymous buyer, one rumored to be connected to Monarch.

Although no intel backed up her suspicion, Sydney believed that buyer was Vaughn.

Last time she hadn't been prepared. This time, she would be. Vaughn would give her answers, or he would never walk out of this nightclub.

Strobe lights switched on, turning the dancers from living beings to a series of still photographs, black-and-white, all of them grotesque and distorted in their way. Sydney pushed her way through the crowds, deigning to move with them, intent on her prey. The deafening thump of the bass vibrated through to her bones.

In one flash of the strobes, she sighted Gerhard Strauss; Sydney needed no more than an instant to confirm her ID. He was edging his way toward a table in a far corner, where a lone man sat in a metal chair, his back to her. No matter. She would have known him anywhere.

As the music kept pounding, Sydney kept moving toward the table, arriving there only a moment before Gerhard himself. Without any other warning, she put one hand on the back of the metal chair, pulled it around and murmured, "Hello, darling."

Then she bent down and kissed Julian Sark as hard as she could.


	6. Chapter 6

**Innsbruck, Austria**

 

As soon as their lips parted, Sark smiled and slid one hand around her thigh. "Liebling," he drawled, "what a pleasant surprise."

"You haf been naughty boy." Syd laid the Swedish accent on thick; the more amused Gerhard Strauss was, the less likely he would be to seriously question her presence here. "You are telling Karin you cannot come out to play. But here you are. Playing wifout your Liebling."

"Do tell her this is work, Gerhard." Sark could not have incorporated her story more smoothly if they had actually been partners in this, rather than opponents. "I have work to do, Karin. Important work. Wouldn't you rather dance?" His fingers stroked the bend of her knee, tickling her just there. "I should like to see you dance."

"I will see what is dis work, what keeps you from coming to play." Pushing her lower lip forward in a pout, Sydney swung one thigh across Sark's body, straddling him on the chair. This provided two instant advantages: She was placed firmly between Strauss and Sark, and it wasn't arrogant to assume that Sark was now somewhat distracted.

"I thought you hadn't been in Austria long, Julian." Strauss sounded more entertained than suspicious, but suspicion was there.

"Karin and I are old friends, aren't we, Liebling?"

Sydney nodded as she looked over her shoulder at Gerhard. "He is meeting me in Oslo last year. We go dancing on my birfday." She raked one hand through his blond hair, allowing the cuff to brush against his cheek; Sark was enough of a professional to know what she had hidden there and understand the warning. "You remember my birfday present, my naughty boy?"

"Very well indeed." Sark's hands slipped down her back to cup her ass, fingers digging into her flesh. The warning she'd given had only emboldened him. "And if you are a good girl, I shall give it to you again."

Strauss, losing patience with this display of affection, said, "If I'm interrupting –"

"Most certainly you are not." Sark spoke crisply, once again focused – except for his right hand, which remained curved around her. She ran her hands up and down his sides: one gun holstered beneath his left arm. A flick of her thumb and the safety was on; that might buy her valuable seconds later. Although he undoubtedly realized what she was doing, Sark did not react. "I assure you that I'm here for business, Gerhard – unexpected distractions aside."

"We cannot discuss this in front of her."

Sydney straightened up, as if outraged. "I know it! Is new girl!"

"Shhh, Liebling. Your place in my heart is unmatched, I assure you." Turning then to Strauss, Sark added, "Karin understands loud music and cheap wine and very little else – isn't that right?" Sydney nodded cheerfully, while digging one of her stiletto heels into Sark's foot. His leg tensed, but his voice was carefree as he continued, in Russian, "You are as safe as you would be speaking in front of the family dog."

She raised the eyebrow that Strauss couldn't see; Sark's shoulder shrugged slightly beneath her hand. But the lie served its purpose; Strauss started to talk. "Verify the accounts. Then I show you the merchandise."

Sark looked up into Sydney's face. "Could you get my handheld, Liebling? It's the ridge you feel against your thigh. Your left thigh, I mean."

She slipped her hand into the right front pocket of his pants to withdraw a handheld computer, which Sark plucked from her hand. Making a show of kissing the side of Sark's face, Sydney was able to keep one eye on the screen, memorizing the account numbers as quickly as Sark tapped them in. Whatever else happened here tonight, Strauss wouldn't avoid CIA surveillance any longer. After Sark handed it over, Strauss nodded. "The amount is acceptable. Make the transfer."

"Show me your version of the Circumference. Then I make the transfer."

Reluctantly, Strauss took out a small metal case, one that looked as if it might hold sunglasses, except for the titanium combination lock. This snapped open to reveal a small square of antique vellum. Sydney kept the half-bored, half-horny expression on her face, but her pulse quickened as she recognized Rambaldi's materials.

His voice hard, Sark said, "If this proves to be a copy, however accurate –"

"I haven't made any copies, detailed or otherwise. This is the original. After Sevogda, I'm ready to be rid of it." Sydney blinked; she hadn't realized that there might be Rambaldi followers out there who had lost faith. "Make the transfer and it's yours."

A few button-punches on the handheld, and then Sark and Strauss both smiled. The metal case went into Sark's free hand; before he could snap it shut, Sydney took the parchment between two fingers. "What, is treasure map?" She giggled. "We are pirates now?"

Grinning, Sark half-kissed, half-bit her chin. "We can play pirates if you'd like." His lips were warm against her throat. "Shall we?"

"You've grown careless too young." Strauss stood up, Teutonic dignity embodied, but he made no move to retrieve the map. "Good luck to you. If this is how you operate these days, you'll need it."

He walked off through the flashing lights and haze of the club, leaving Sydney and Sark face to face, her legs still on either side of his waist, the map still in her hand – and Sark's fingers closing around her arm. They faced one another squarely, frozen in the razor-thin gap between embrace and combat.

"Charming to see you again, Sydney. How good of you to come all this way for a visit."

"I didn't come here to see you. Doesn't really matter, though." She fluttered the paper between her fingers. "You got the job done."

"So you were here for Vaughn." At Sark's words, Sydney tensed; his smile broadened as he read her reaction. "We're partners now, you know. A fact you might want to take into consideration."

Vaughn was working with Sark – the man he hated most in the world – just to get closer to Rambaldi. Once again, Sydney wondered if she'd ever known Vaughn at all. "He's irrelevant. I don't have to take anything into consideration."

"How long I've waited to hear those words." The strobe lights came on again, rendering his expression even harder to read; Sark was a series of photographs, blue on black, remote despite the fact that their bodies were pressed together in the dark. "I'll be sure to tell him you said so."

"Please do." Sydney told herself she meant it.

"By the way, I just paid quite a lot of money for the paper you're holding," Sark said, conversationally.

"You know what they say. Possession is nine-tenths of the law."

"At the moment, any casual observer would say that I possessed you. You may wish to adapt your interpretation of the law accordingly."

The bass thumped through the floor so powerfully that it vibrated up through the floor, through Sark's body against hers. Sydney had been this close to him once before, at a nightclub where she'd played a far more difficult role. The hardest part of it all had been the fact that Vaughn was watching, hating the fact that she was in the arms of his worst enemy.

Even if they were working together now -- Vaughn would hate this so much. It would infuriate him. Hurt him.

Sydney raised her hands above her head, as if in a stretch; Sark let go of her, choosing to enjoy the view this move gave him of her breasts beneath the thin fabric of her skimpy dress. "Do you own me? You don't act like it," she said, arching her spine so that her head fell back, and she could feel Sark's breath against her breastbone. "Maybe it's time you acted like it."

Her arms stretched out behind her so that she was almost reclining on the table – almost inviting Sark to lay her upon it. His breath had quickened, and she knew she had him. That gave her the moment she needed to dip the paper into the table's cheap centerpiece – a shot glass containing a single tea light.

The flames leaped up behind Sydney, singing her fingers before she could pull away. Sark swore as he jerked back from the table, sending Sydney stumbling behind him; despite the stilettos, she kept her balance. Fire consumed the Rambaldi document in an instant, the dark lines of the circumference charring into nothingness. It happened so quickly that nobody else in the club would even have noticed – if the table hadn't been coated in flaking black paint that, as it turned out, was highly flammable.

The table blazed up into a torch, and within an instant the room was filled with smoke and screams. People began shoving their way toward the exits, shrieking and clawing at one another; Sark and Sydney joined the mob, and for a moment she was certain he would duck away from her, using the pandemonium as cover. But either Sark was unable to lose her or he didn't try.

Sydney didn't try to escape either. Rambaldi's work had been destroyed, so one of her missions was complete. The next mission was revenge. She'd never done anything purely for revenge before, and she was surprised how intoxicating it could be.

Music continued to blare out into the night, loud enough that Sydney could hear it over all the shouting, even when they spilled out onto the street. Most people ran toward the front of the building, where the flames were visible, eager to see the disaster they'd just escaped. Sark pulled Sydney into the back alley, swinging her around hard against the wall. She let the momentum take her; this wasn't the time for self-control.

"You cost me four million dollars tonight." Sark's eyes took in her long, bare legs, the rise and fall of her chest, the way the skinny strap of her dress had almost fallen off the shoulder.

Sydney shrugged, bringing the strap that much closer to falling. "That depends on what you think you bought." Sark raised an eyebrow as he stepped closer. Her heartbeat was pounding faster now, almost audible above the still-pounding club music and the screams and sirens a street away. "If you think you bought a piece of paper, then – yeah, you're out of luck."

"What else might I have bought, Sydney?" He was very near now, placing his hands on either side of her waist. Their faces were only a few inches apart.

If Vaughn could see this, it would destroy him. For one instant, the girl Sydney had been rose up inside her, protesting against using her body to hurt the man she loved --

\-- but that love was a lie, and always had been, and Sydney was going to prove it to Vaughn and to herself, right now.

She whispered, "I think you bought something you've wanted a lot longer than that piece of paper. Something a lot harder to get."

Sark's smile was almost disbelieving. "And is that now mine?" His voice was a murmur now, one that sent shivers up her spine. "To do with as I will?"

Sydney slipped the straps of her dress off and let it fall to the street. She wore only a thong and her stilettos; the yellow light from the streetlamp shone on her sweat-damp skin. As Sark breathed in, she said, "All yours."

His mouth was on hers, the brick wall against her back, and Sydney tried to feel nothing but this, to think nothing at all. (The last time was with Vaughn, at home in her bed, their bed.) Sark's fingers were dry as he slipped them beneath the lace of her thong, rubbing against her hard, then dipping inside. She tore at his shirt, pulling it open so they could be skin to skin and the heat of his body could erase everything else. (Vaughn had tugged the blanket over them, framed her face in his hands as though she were his most precious treasure.) Sark pushed her down to her knees, and Sydney took him in her mouth, swallowing him as deep as she could, relishing claiming power over him at last. (The radio had been playing softly in the background, and when one of their favorite songs came on, she and Vaughn paused and smiled at one another.)

And then Sark was tugging her thong to the side, pushing into her, making her burn. Sydney gripped his shoulders as he thrust into her, pressing her between his chest and the wall so hard that she had to gasp for breath. Her body knew what this was if her mind didn't, responding so quickly that she cried out her climax almost at once, long and hard and good. Then she could only hang on, panting and confused, as Sark rode her toward his own end.

("Love you," Vaughn had said, kissing her shoulder before he went to sleep – just the way he always did.)

They stumbled away from each other, breathing hard. Even as she felt the slipperiness against her thighs, Sydney was forced into a new recognition of the scene: the grimy alley, the scrapes on her back, the crumpled form of her dress on the pavement. Quickly she scooped it up and slipped it back on, wobbling badly and telling herself it was just the heels. The air was acrid with smoke, and Sydney tasted ash.

With a zipper purr and a few refastened buttons, Sark had reassembled himself into a fair approximation of his former polish. "You always were masterful with your surprises, Sydney."

"Glad to know I haven't lost my touch," she said shortly.

"Never that."

Sark had helped Lauren try to kill them. Sark had kidnapped Will. Sark had tortured Vaughn. Her conscience came flooding in, too late to do her a damn bit of good but just in time to hurt. "I'm going."

"Wait." Stepping closer to her, Sark offered, "Come back with me to my hotel. Not that this rather – violent – encounter hasn't been delightful in its way, but I promise you, we could do far more with a four-poster bed, a bottle of Champagne and several hours of leisure." Worst of all was the fact that he said it sincerely; it made her feel as though she had somehow deceived him. This was the final absurdity of which her life was capable: Sydney felt guilty for leading Sark on.

"I don't need to be here." Her voice broke on the words.

He tilted his head, regarding her. "Regret, Sydney? How disappointingly mundane. Now you really must come with me to the hotel. If you're going to repent of this, make sure you've committed a sin worth repenting."

"I don't believe in sin anymore."

"Just when I thought you couldn't be more fascinating than you already were." He grinned as he began walking away from her; Sydney didn't miss the fact that Sark wanted to be the one to leave. Let him. Her reaction was enough to deal with, so there was no point in worrying about his. But he paused just at the edge of the streetlamp's light, a step away from shadow. "You may rest assured that tonight's indiscretion will remain between us."

"Tell him."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tell Vaughn everything." _ Let him be the one to hurt. Let him choke on it._ The bravado rang hollow inside her, but Sydney added, "Tell him I wanted him to hear it."

Sark bowed his head. "As you wish." The night surrounded him, and Sydney was alone.

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

The med center in APO had no windows, so Sloane couldn't see the sun rise. He knew it was happening – like most agents, his time sense was finely calibrated to place – but he couldn't quite convince himself that the night was over.

For hours, he'd sat by Nadia's side, studying her face, learning it by heart. Sloane felt as though he had never seen her truly before – her mother's brow, her father's jaw, the simple beauty that was wholly her own. It was important to remember her as she had been, not idealized or simplified by any haze of memory or even love. He probably would not come here again – now more than ever it was torment to him, a torment that did neither of them any good to endure. But Nadia was too precious – too beloved – to ever be forgotten.

Sloane knew the tricks memory could play. So he had spent the long night reminding himself of the few things he knew to be true, anchoring his will in his love for Nadia as she lay in her unending sleep.

He took her hand and kissed it, his face creasing into a grimace near tears. "Goodbye, sweetheart."

Just at that moment, he heard a loud, cheerful voice call out, "Nothin' more fun than being up at dawn, huh? How you doing, Mandy?"

Weiss. As the night nurse burbled her greetings – apparently they'd made friends – Sloane collected himself. He resented the intrusion; Weiss should not have been here for hours yet, and he would have wished to have at least this parting with Nadia remain private.

His eyes were dry by the time Weiss – clad in blue jeans and a black sweater – came in the door. "Sloane. Hey. Didn't expect to see you here."

"I didn't expect to see you either." The words came out crisply, almost official. "I thought you usually arrived considerably later than this."

"Yeah, I wouldn't have any reason to be here early today," Weiss replied, putting extra weight on the words. Of course – Weiss was secretly leaving for Lisbon later, as the latest stage in chronicling Elena Derevko's life. Sloane had not told him or anyone else that the most terrible truth in all Elena's documents had already been revealed. Weiss had brought flowers, yet again; the daffodils or tulips by Nadia's bedside changed every few days, unseen by their recipient. "But I'm glad I ran into you. I can talk you through the routine for this week."

"The routine?"

"Right." Weiss held up a bottle of some sort of lotion, as if by way of instruction. "I'm going on vacation for a few days, so I was thinking maybe you could provide Nadia with a little TLC."

"I'm confident that the nurses take good care of her."

"I – yeah. They do. Of course. But it's not the same. You get that, right?" The lotion bottle was set down on the bedside table with slightly too much force. "Sometimes I wonder if you do."

"I love Nadia more than you will ever understand," Sloane said. "That means I love her enough to let her go."

Weiss snapped. "You do not get to give up on her." Though clearly furious, he spoke in a whisper, afraid of waking the dead. It was too terrible to be funny, too ridiculous to be borne. "I am sick and tired of every single one of you acting like Nadia's gone. She's not gone. She's right here, and we have to keep fighting for her."

Sloane had battled Sydney and Jack Bristow, two Derevko sisters, the CIA and the entire Alliance and escaped almost unscathed; he was not one to be cowed by a lout like Eric Weiss. "How gratifying this must be for you."

"Gratifying? What are you on?"

"After so many months of a romantic relationship that, frankly, appeared to the casual observer to be stalled – at last you can prove your devotion." He remained focused on Weiss as he spoke; looking at Nadia again would strip away the defense of his anger, leave only the ache behind. "Now that Nadia no longer has any say in the matter, you can at last demonstrate to the world how significant your affair really was. You comfort yourself with a love that never existed, and give posthumous meaning to a relationship that never had that much to begin with. I suspect that gratifies you a great deal."

For a few moments, Weiss simply stared at him. When he spoke again, he said only, "You know, I'd almost talked myself out of thinking you were a total son of a bitch."

"I'll be gone before you return," Sloane said, the only reference he could make to his own plans in a non-secure area. As he walked out – leaving Nadia behind, perhaps forever – he finished, "We won't meet like this again."

That afternoon he met with Sydney by the oil pumps; even in January, the edge of the desert was sunny, shimmering orange in a haze that made the city seem far away. Though they were there to talk tactics, Sloane felt the need to warn her that his relationship with another member of their group was now strained.

"Mr. Weiss continues to torment himself with false hopes," he said, adjusting his Versace sunglasses to guard against the desert glare. "As long as he does that, he remains somewhat volatile."

"Weiss is the least volatile guy on earth," Sydney protested. Her arms were folded around her, her hair pulled back into a utilitarian ponytail. Ever since her return from her Austria trip, she'd been unusually withdrawn, even by the standards of her behavior since Vaughn's departure. Sloane wondered if he should point this out to Jack, but the idea struck him as painful, and unlikely to be productive in any case. "Even when he's mad, he's still grounded. That's one of the things that makes Weiss who he is."

"Identity isn't as static as we sometimes like to think, Sydney. Are either of us precisely who we were five years ago?"

He could not see her eyes beneath her sunglasses any more than she could see his, but as they faced one another, he could hear the echoes of a hundred past confrontations – all of them fading away, fading into this moment when she could hear him at last.

"Everybody changes," Sydney said simply.

Sloane had not known absolution could come in only two words.

Perhaps sensing the gravity the moment had acquired, and denying it without denying him, she added, "Except my father."

He laughed once. "That's why Jack is our rock."

"Yeah. He is." Leaning against the back of her car, Sydney turned her face toward the city, as if surveying it as just one more element in her plan. She'd become so thin, since the summer. "If you think Weiss is going to have an attitude with you, it's easy enough for me and Dad to run interference. I don't see why it's an issue."

"Weiss' refusal to accept Nadia's fate may render his assistance problematic in other ways as well."

"What do you mean?"

"I hardly know. I simply think he bears watching, Sydney. I would be remiss if I didn't share those doubts with you."

"He thinks you bear watching. But that's okay." She shrugged. "I can watch you both."

She had learned so much, and yet she knew so little. Sloane thought that she reminded him deeply of Jack, at moments like these.

 

**Lisbon, Portugal**

 

_You're one to talk about stalled relationships, seeing how you're still sucking up to two people with really good reasons to hate you._

No, that didn't work. Jack and Sydney were a lot more understanding about Sloane these days, for logical reasons, though at the moment Weiss was not in a frame of mind that would allow him to call those good reasons.

_You can't deal with the fact that you're responsible for her being here, and that's why you never come to her, never help take care of her –_

But he'd already told Sloane that he understood the reasons for Nadia's shooting. He'd been more generous then than he really felt; Nadia would have wanted him to be. If she'd realized Weiss was going to need a really good comeback eventually – well, he felt sure she would've given him a free pass.

_This isn't about proving anything to anybody – not to you, not to Nadia, not to myself. I'm here because I want to be. I take care of her because I don't want to be anywhere else. _

That was the simple truth of the matter. Too bad Sloane would never believe it.

Weiss shouldered his backpack as he carefully made his way down a steeply sloped road; this was his first trip to Lisbon, which so far reminded him a lot of San Francisco, what with the coastline, the streetcars and the eight hundred jillion hills he had to climb to get anywhere. Today's destination was the apartment "Sofia Vargas" had lived in last year – before she invited herself back into Nadia's life to betray her one last time.

Given the brief time Elena had lived here, Weiss wasn't expecting to find a whole hell of a lot. But if there was even a chance it would get an answer for Nadia, then he was going to take it.

The sunlight slanted through the tilted pathways as Weiss finally found the doorway he was looking for. He stepped into the apartment, noticing first that it didn't smell nearly as musty as it should after having been closed up for months – and then, as his eyes adjusted to the light, that someone was sitting, perfectly still, at the table.

"I'm glad it's you," Vaughn said. "We should talk."

Just SITTING there. Wearing a white linen suit that could only have been a disguise, his hands folded over a stack of papers that looked like what Weiss had come here for, acting like it was no big deal. Like maybe he thought they should chat about the Super Bowl or something. Given their teams' opposing goals, Sydney had warned them all that they could expect to eventually run into Vaughn or Sark again, maybe both, but still – the reality of it was a lot to swallow.

"Correction," Weiss said, kicking the door shut behind him. "We should have talked several months ago, before you went totally freakin' insane. Or is that several years ago? I'm kinda fuzzy on the math here."

"I'm not insane. I know what I'm doing, and why."

"I don't see how knowing what you're doing and why makes you sane. Son of Sam knew he was killing people because the dog told him to, right?"

"Jesus, Weiss, I'm not a serial killer –"

"No, you're a Rambaldi follower, and the last time I checked, Rambaldi's big master plan involved killing more people than Jack the Ripper ever dreamed of on his BEST day." Weiss moved fast, but he knew the reason he was able to pull his gun before Vaughn even moved for his wasn't because he acted quick. It was because Vaughn had never thought Weiss would do something like that.

_This friendship is just full of surprises, _Weiss thought.

They faced each other like the strangers they were becoming. Quietly, Weiss said, "Stop acting like I'm the one who's off-base here. All right? Because there's only so much of that I'm going to take."

"Okay." Vaughn laid his hands on the table, and it was hard to say whether he was demonstrating that he wasn't going for his weapon or claiming the documents there as his own. "Just hear me out."

"I don't know that your explanations are worth that much these days. You lied to all of us, you ran off and left Syd, and your name is some German thing that you kinda failed to mention for a few years. It's not exactly a gold standard of honesty that's been set here."

"Eric, please." Pulling out the first name was playing dirty, but Vaughn was getting better at that, these days. "You don't understand."

"You think you're gonna get me to understand this? I've had Sloane preaching Rambaldi at me for months now, and the one single scrap of credit I'm ever gonna give that guy is that he's forgotten more about Rambaldi than you'll ever know."

"There's more to this than even Sloane realizes." Oh, GREAT. Weiss managed not to groan out loud. "I'm doing what I have to do."

"Leaving Syd is something you had to do?"

"Yes, dammit!" Vaughn's face was anguished – the way it had been when Sydney was in danger, back in the SD-6 days, the way it had been after they'd believed her dead. That look in Vaughn's eyes – that rawness – Weiss had seen it before. In that moment he knew that whatever else was going on, Vaughn's pain was real. "Whether Sydney knows it or not – whether she'll ever believe it – everything I'm doing, I'm doing for her."

"Sure as hell doesn't look like it."

Vaughn buried his head in his hands. "I know it doesn't. It can't. If Sydney knew the truth, she'd decide she could handle it all herself and get herself killed."

Was this an accurate take on Sydney's character? Hell, yeah. Weiss had been prepared for just about anything from Vaughn, but not for the guy to start making sense.

"Tell me what's going on," Weiss said, and although he didn't lower the gun, he shifted it slightly to the side, so he wasn't staring at Vaughn over the barrel.

"I would if I could. Please believe that."

"I need more than 'please' right now. Give me something I can use, all right? Nadia – Vaughn, she's still in that hospital bed, they don't think she'll ever wake up –"

Vaughn opened his mouth, then shut it. He was another of the people who assumed Nadia was already as good as dead – just one more person who was wrong.

Finally pushed to the breaking point, Weiss took two steps forward as he brought the gun around again. "Tell you what. We'll talk all this over in CIA custody."

He felt the blow before he ever saw Vaughn move: Weiss' arms felt like someone had smashed a crowbar into them from below, knocking the gun up and away as he fell back. Then a foot in the side, and the floor was in his face – he was back up in an instant, but Vaughn was already at the doorway, his own gun in his hands.

"I told you the truth," Vaughn panted. "But I can't go to jail. I've got work to do."

"You go do your work." Weiss pulled himself up to the table where Vaughn had been sitting – and where Elena's precious Rambaldi documents lay. "Because I'm the one with the goods."

"Not all of them." Vaughn paused. "You can't tell Sydney about this."

"About you being here? You're crazy if you think –"

"That's not what I meant. You can't tell her that I'm giving you these." With his free hand, he fished inside his jacket, then tossed a passport and a few other papers onto the floor between them. "And don't tell Syd what I said about doing this for her own good. It would only hurt her."

_He's giving me Rambaldi papers. Why would he be giving me Rambaldi papers, unless –_

Weiss looked up at his friend again, torn between betrayal and hope. "I'm not making any promises."

"Yes, you are."

"Okay, I am." He repeated it, more slowly and intently, so Vaughn would accept it. "I am. I won't tell Syd how I got the information."

This was a lie, but Weiss didn't think he owed Vaughn the truth right now.

They regarded each other in strained silence for a moment longer, before Vaughn said, "I'm sorry about Nadia. I really am."

Then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him. Weiss could and probably should have pursued, but instead he went to work examining the papers Vaughn had given him. The passport – Thomas Brill's. Well, that was pretty damn interesting, wasn't it? And this had the name of that weird project he'd gotten information on in Buenos Aires. All the stuff on the table was probably irrelevant; this was the meat, the goods, what Weiss had come for.

What Vaughn had given him.

**

**Karachi, Pakistan**

 

In the bazaar known as Empress Market, stalls smelled of incense or fruit; brilliantly colored fabric lay rolled in bolts of indigo, saffron and cinnabar. Cheap plastic sandals were heaped so high on one table that the seller was almost invisible, and on the next, pirated DVDs showed Americans firing guns, high kicks from Hong Kong and Bollywood dancers with their eyes wide.

Sloane noted these details as a spy, for whom all details were potentially valuable, and not as a traveler. He'd been in a hundred such markets through the years. Only once had he ever bought anything – an oil lantern barely the size of a soda can, crafted with such care that tin had taken on the elegance of silver. Emily had loved the impromptu anniversary gift more than any of the diamonds he bought her other years; she hung it on the back deck and lit it on evenings when they would dine al fresco, sipping wine beneath the sunset.

He had lived his life with Emily in the belief that he gave her only the best part of himself; now, with the clarity that came from loss, Sloane could see that giving Emily a fragment of himself was never enough, no matter how carefully he chose. He should have trusted her with more.

By now, regret was becoming too comfortable a companion.

As he strolled past a booth filled with live rabbits in cages, he heard a woman say, "A pity, isn't it? To think of them all as someone's dinner."

"Man must eat." Sloane glanced to his side, where Katya Derevko walked. They had never been face-to-face before, though he'd seen some surveillance photos from the jail. Freedom had understandably improved her looks; she wore a long dark blue coat with a hood that suited her, and she evidently knew it. "A pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh."

"I cannot say the same. I often thought even hearing your voice on the phone was too much. And yet here we are."

Sloane took the insult in stride. He had the sense that Katya Derevko abused people in good humor until she felt she'd taken their measure; as he considered his own measure difficult to take, he felt he could be expected to be treated like this for some time to come. "How curious that you should choose Karachi for our meeting."

She pursed her lips, an expression that managed to both witty and somewhat seductive. He began to see why Jack might have a certain weakness for the sisters Derevko. "Why is it curious, Arvin? Why would Dublin or Brasilia or Rabat be more sensible?"

"Karachi isn't all that far – on a global scale, I mean – from Kashmir. Gerard Cuvee's main territory." He adjusted his sunglasses as he pretended to take interest in a display of yellowed paperback books in a dozen different languages. "Given how assiduously we've all been looking for a major Rambaldi player – someone who has a secret identity within even this shadow world we all deal in – I find the coincidence uncanny."

"Cuvee as Monarch? An intriguing theory." Katya's smile widened. "We really should pay Gerard a visit someday, don't you think?"

He had visited Cuvee not so long ago, and put little stock in the idea that Cuvee was Monarch, but Sloane did not intend to reveal everything he knew to Katya just yet. "He did a friend of mine a disservice once. I don't think I'd mind dropping in on him at all."

"Jack Bristow, you mean. And you refer to the introduction of Jack and Irina." Katya seemed less amused now. "If you ask me, it was Irina who was done no favor that day."

"You misunderstand me. Given Sydney's role in Rambaldi's prophecies, Irina and Jack had to meet, didn't they?"

"And, by extension, you had to meet Irina through Jack. Given Nadia's role in those same prophecies."

Sloane did not reply to that; he was conscious of being studied, just as he had tried to test her before. "My point is that it wasn't the KGB who preordained their meeting. What I was referring to - Cuvee held Jack in custody a few years ago, and my reports indicate that he treated Jack rather cruelly. This suggests that it's been altogether too long since Mr. Cuvee found himself at another man's mercy. A fact I mean to change."

"You are an even more frightening friend than enemy. I mean that as a compliment, you know."

"Your compliments sound like most people's insults."

"When I begin insulting you in earnest, trust me, you will register the change." Katya tapped one fingernail against a tiny wire cage containing a pet cricket. It chirruped once, loudly enough to be heard in the market's din. "You aren't being frank with me, not at all."

"I have not spoken one untrue word since we met here."

"But you have not spoken any of your true concerns."

"What precisely did you expect?" He readjusted his sunglasses as he cast an appraising gaze over the crowd, mapping out potential escape routes – mostly by rote, but with more specific intent than he'd had a few moments ago. "Candor is no virtue in our profession."

"Did you travel to Pakistan to trade only in banter and lies? Then you have more time to waste than I do." Katya stopped walking and fixed him in her glare. "We share one love – Nadia. Tell me what you hope or fear for her, and I will tell you what I know."

It was the one approach she could have made that would have persuaded him to take the risk. "I have begun to believe that Nadia – that she is not precisely who the prophecies suggested she would be."

"I regret to say that I fully believe her to be the Passenger, and therefore destined to die," Katya said, "and I am willing to show you my evidence. But that's not exactly what you meant, is it?" She cocked her head, as if she'd just heard a faraway sound on the wind. "Not all you've learned, either."

Sloane hesitated a beat too long – but what of it? She had a Derevko's insight, but instead of playing the subtle manipulations of Irina or Elena, Katya came at her targets blunt and fast. The approach worked better than Sloane would have given it credit for. "That's all I'm prepared to discuss at this time."

Her smile broadened, illuminating her face. "You're a smart man. Smarter than I ever imagined."

She knew. Sloane didn't know how it was possible, but she knew.

"You were always the one I wanted to meet most." She stepped closer to him, the deep blue of her hood framing her ivory face. "So many of Rambaldi's followers – they hungered for power. But you saw the beauty in it. I think you loved the beauty most of all, and that you still do."

It was strange to be so instantly and clearly understood. Sloane did not like the sensation, but at the same time, he could not turn away. "You understand something about me – and that puts me at a disadvantage. Because I feel as though I know nothing about you."

"That can change." Their eyes met, and she said, "Forget Gerard Cuvee. You and I – what is the phrase in English? Ah, yes. We have bigger fish to fry."

Sloane's only response was, "Lead the way."

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

"And you let Sloane go on extended leave – why, exactly?" Chase folded her arms in front of her.

Jack leaned back in his chair, deliberately casual. "We've been on inactive status for months, and his daughter – her condition hasn't improved. You've undoubtedly reviewed my personnel file, and so I think you should understand why I might be inclined to sympathize."

"Anytime I hear the words 'sympathize' and 'Arvin Sloane' in the same conversation, I get suspicious." Chase put her hands in the middle of his desk and got right up in his face, obviously as little cowed by him as he was by her. "APO is a black ops unit. The whole point of black ops is for the CIA not to have to ask quite as many questions, so that the CIA never has to hear the answers. So at this time, I'm not asking you a few questions that we both know I've got the right to ask. But if I don't see either Sloane or an explanation by – let's say, three weeks? – I'm going to take the risk of hearing answers. And I will hear them, Agent Bristow. Am I clear?"

"Crystal." Jack appreciated a strong opponent. But his calm approval dissipated when she spoke again.

"The reason I say three weeks is because as of that date, APO goes on active status again."

"We're still down two field agents," Jack said quickly. He had been anticipating this, but he'd thought he could buy them more time. "Given the size of our team, that's a substantial loss."

Chase smiled easily. "I've cleared you for access to CIA-wide personnel files." As though he hadn't hacked into them almost a decade ago. "Agent Vaughn's never coming back, and even if Agent Santos does someday recover, she's obviously out of commission for a long time to come. That means you get to hire some fresh blood. Find more than two, while you're at it; now that Sloane's not in charge of this unit any longer, I feel a little better giving you permission to expand."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Jack said. He didn't smile – Chase knew him well enough not to expect it, and trying too hard to cover his discomfiture would be the surest way to broadcast it.

She simply nodded, neither sure of him nor unsure of herself – in other words, obviously alert at levels Jack would have preferred to avoid.

He arranged to meet with Sydney and Weiss that evening on a subway train. Los Angeles, a city of drivers, did not crowd public transport, and they had no difficulty getting a car to themselves. Jack believed that the principal issue of concern would be the impending limit on their movements and demands on their time – but Weiss' debrief of his trip to Lisbon blotted out everything else.

"He gave you the papers?" Sydney's face was still. "It has to be a trick."

"What kind of trick? We all look for motives besides the obvious – but I don't see another motive for this. Do you, Jack?"

Jack weighed the possibilities. "He could of course be trying to regain your trust."

Weiss shook his head. "I made it clear that wasn't going to happen."

Sydney laughed, a hard sound Jack did not like. "Except that you're sitting here telling us to trust him."

His daughter was right, and Weiss' face fell almost comically. But he recovered as best he could. "But the stuff he gave us – a passport for one of Thomas Brill's aliases, which is a major clue that he's mixed up in this, right? Rambaldi papers I've never seen before. This is valuable intel."

"They're faked," Sydney said. Her cheeks were often pale these days – Jack had begun to wonder if she went outside anymore for any purpose but work – so the angry flush across her cheekbones looked almost febrile. "Vaughn's setting us up."

"That's another possibility," Jack acknowledged, peering down at the packet of information Weiss had provided. "But he couldn't have been sure that anybody would ever appear in Lisbon, or that it would be Weiss he found there."

"What have I got to do with it?" Weiss asked.

That should have been obvious. "Sydney had already attacked Vaughn once. He fundamentally distrusts Sloane and knows the sentiment is mutual, and Vaughn is undoubtedly aware that I would not have been a receptive audience for his claims." Jack thought that was the most tactful way of phrasing the extreme unlikelihood that Vaughn would have lived through their interview. "You were the one person in our team who would have heard him out."

Sydney's arms were folded around herself, a protective gesture that reminded Jack of when she had stomachaches as a little girl. "So he followed Weiss. He made sure to give the fake into to the only person soft enough to hear him out."

"Hey," Weiss protested, but Jack cut him off with a gesture.

"We don't trust or distrust this intel until we've thoroughly analyzed it," he said, looking from Weiss to Sydney. They were listening, but the undercurrent of tension was still there. "After that, we can evaluate whether or not Vaughn is attempting to mislead us."

"What else could he possibly be doing?" Sydney's expression was halfway between anger and tears, and for some reason Jack remembered talking to her in his car just after they'd learned that Irina was still alive. Why was he thinking of that? He put it aside and listened to his daughter. "We know he's going after the Rambaldi artifacts. We know he's working with Sark –"

Weiss interjected, "Yeah, but remember what happened the last time you saw Sark?"

Sydney's eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

"He kinda helped you catch Anna Espinosa, didn't he?" Leaning back in his seat – obviously relieved to have made a point – Weiss continued, "Maybe Sark's not exactly on the Rambaldi followers' side anymore."

"If the best explanation you can come up with for Vaughn's actions involves defending Sark too, that's not very convincing." She looked out the window at nothing, her jaw set.

The train swayed from side to side as it rounded a curve; bands of light striped through the car. Jack chose to ignore the moods of his companions and focus on the possible tactical explanations for Vaughn's behavior.

It went against his nature to credit Vaughn with any better feeling whatsoever. For most of the past several months, Jack had been envisioning different forms of revenge against Michael Vaughn for the emotional devastation he'd wreaked upon Sydney; many of these revenges were fatal. So it pained Jack to have to consider Vaughn's behavior in another light – but in the end, his curiosity about tactics overwhelmed his anger and brought matters into focus.

Vaughn had been stealing Rambaldi artifacts necessary for the construction of the Mueller Device for months. This intel – if genuine – was potentially also important. But Vaughn had handed it over willingly. Sark's past status as a Rambaldi believer was not in doubt, but his behavior in the Espinosa matter indicated a change in his pattern. Therefore –

"Vaughn may be setting us up, and we shouldn't assume otherwise until we've triple-checked all of this intel." Jack offered the suggestion carefully – for different reasons regarding both of his listeners. "If he isn't, then the only other logical explanation is that Vaughn's goal the past several months has been identical to our own."

"What?" Sydney looked at him blankly.

"I mean that it's possible that Vaughn and Sark have been stealing Rambaldi artifacts for the same reason we have. They may not be trying to build the Mueller device themselves. Instead, they may be attempting to prevent Monarch from doing so."

Weiss started to smile, almost incredulous. "Wait. You think we've been on the same page with Vaughn all along?"

Jack had no use for reaffirming that friendship. "I don't have the information necessary to reach that conclusion, and neither do you. But it's one of the possible explanations, yes."

Sydney protested, "But he's working with Sark!"

"That's a valid objection. But Weiss made a good point earlier: Sark did help us capture Anna Espinosa, though it worked against his own interest to do so. We can no longer afford to assume that Sark's goals are invariably hostile to our own."

"So you'll even pretend that Sark's a good guy if it excuses Vaughn?" Light brightened around them as the train slowed, pulling them into a station. Sydney grabbed at one of the metal handholds above them and rose – obviously ready to walk out, though this was nowhere near her home. "The only problem, Dad, is that your 'explanation' doesn't explain why Vaughn would leave and never come back," she said, her voice cold. "I never thought I'd see you giving Vaughn too much credit."

The doors slid open, and Sydney stalked away. Jack let her go.

When the train began moving again, Weiss offered, "I'll start going over all this stuff tonight. Double-checking. Triple-checking. I never thought I'd be this into footnotes, you know?"

"Let me take half of it," Jack said. He did not trust Weiss' objectivity in this, but there were practical reasons as well. "We'll get through it faster."

Weiss began offering folders to Jack, choosing them either at random or through some system Jack could not begin to comprehend. "And after we're done –"

"After we're done, Sloane looks at it. In the end, he can evaluate Rambaldi's work better than either of us."

The last folders were handed over to Jack with a heavy sigh. "You trust that guy more than I do."

Jack gave Weiss a thin smile. "Regarding Mr. Vaughn, I could say the same to you."

**

Sydney found herself in a college students' neighborhood – comfortably tacky, reasonably safe and a good place to waste time. She spent an hour in a used bookstore, thumbing through yellowed paperbacks, concentrating fiercely on every word before forgetting each the instant she replaced a book on the shelves.

She hadn't eaten all day – something that was happening more and more often, lately, because cooking seemed to be too much trouble – but hunger finally forced her to leave the bookstore. Across the street was a pizza place, a cozy kind of dive decorated with posters for bands, flyers begging for roommates and ads for sofas and cars being sold at bargain rates. Sydney ate her slice slowly, sipping at her Coke, watching the kids around her through a strange sort of haze. And they were kids – even though she'd been in classes at UCLA just six short years ago, even though she could still remember eating pizza with Will and Francie in places like this as if it were yesterday. A vast gulf separated her from the laughing people nearby, a distance measured in more than years.

Eventually she returned to the subway and went to her car, fully intending to drive home and sleep. Instead, Sydney found herself taking a different series of roads, traveling a route she'd only gone down once before in her life.

It took her father more than a full minute to answer the knock at his door; when he opened it, he was wearing those strange, comfortable clothes of his again, the ones she so rarely saw. "Sydney," he said haltingly, obviously still processing the fact that she'd come by. "Is something wrong?"

"That's kind of a weird question, these days." Sydney tried to smile. She didn't think she did a very good job.

Jack stepped back and let her in, the first time he'd ever invited her into his home.

Everything appeared more or less as it had when she and Vaughn – when she had come here the previous year to check up on her father's condition. The house was still neat to the point of severity, though Sydney would have expected no less; despite the many other points of contention she and her father had had to fight about during her adolescence, some of their bitterest battles had been over cleaning her room and just what "clean" meant. The only aspects of the place that looked remotely "lived in" were a glass of brandy on one table, and nearby stacks of files that Jack had apparently been reviewing. She glanced over to the windowsill to see if the cat dish was still in place. It was, and the cat crouched beside it, staring up at her with unblinking yellow eyes.

"Hi, there." She found it easier to talk to the cat than her father. Sydney stepped closer, and the cat tensed, as though it might dart away. Instead it watched her intently as she slowly reached down to stroke behind its ears. The gray fur was soft and thick; the cat would have been beautiful, if not for a scar across its nose, a long-ago cut that had obviously gone untended. "Is this your cat?"

Although this should have been a rhetorical question, Jack didn't seem to know how to answer. "He was a stray. He needed feeding, and he came by more and more often. Eventually it seemed practical to take him to the vet for shots – and I bought him a collar, but he comes and goes as he likes."

Not a yes or a no. Sydney tried another tack. "Does he have a name?"

Had her mood been any less bleak, Jack's embarrassment would have made her laugh. "Sterling." He quickly changed the subject. "Do you want something to drink? There's brandy, or I could make you tea."

"I just ate. I'm fine." She settled herself onto the leather sofa; it was more comfortable than she would have thought. Her father returned to his armchair, regarding her with obvious concern, but he said nothing, allowing her to guide the conversation. Sydney was grateful for that, though she still wasn't sure exactly what she wanted to say. After more than a full minute, she ventured, "What you were talking about in the subway today – do you believe it?"

"That Vaughn may be an ally instead of an enemy? I don't believe or disbelieve it. I simply think it has to be acknowledged as a possibility."

"It doesn't explain what he did. Why he left."

"No, it doesn't." The steel in her father's voice had rarely been more welcome. "Vaughn's behavior toward you requires a different defense, and at the moment I'm not convinced an adequate one exists."

Sydney curled her legs beneath her, making herself at home. She needed to feel settled to even say some of the things that were in her heart now. "It's just so hard for me to believe. Too hard."

"You shouldn't believe it yet."

"I know, but that's not what I mean." Her eyes followed Sterling as he padded across the floor to drape himself across Jack's feet. Talking to Dad was so much easier when she could pay attention to the cat instead; if she'd understood this as a child, she'd have given him a kitten for Father's Day one year. "A year ago, I would have said that I knew Vaughn as well as I knew myself. Better, maybe. And now – whatever he's doing, whatever his motives are – I have to admit I don't know him at all. And it makes me feel like I don't even know who I am, anymore." She took a deep breath.

Jack considered that, then said, hesitantly, "I remember that. That feeling."

When the CIA had first told her father that her mother was Irina Derevko – yes, Sydney thought, it must have been a lot like this. It was almost unimaginable, the idea of her father in this same lost, bewildered place. "When were you able to face it? The fact that you loved – a shadow? Not the real person?"

They had never shared so intimate a conversation before, and Sydney could see the reluctance in Jack's eyes; she halfway expected him to tell her it was none of her business. But he took a deep breath and answered. "I convinced myself of that very quickly. It was the only explanation that fit the facts I had at the time. That didn't make the experience any less – difficult," he finished, the final word clearly an understatement.

The naked vulnerability every word revealed forced Sydney to talk; if she had to witness her father's enduring shame, she could at least share it. "Sometimes I wonder if Vaughn tried to be exactly what I needed him to be. Everything he gave me – everything he understood about me – maybe I created that. Maybe I dreamed it all up, and he just played the role I wrote."

"Your mother was – the perfect wife. In every way. Before I knew, I wondered how I ever got so lucky." He took a deep swallow of his brandy. "Luck."

Sydney whispered, "Be careful what you wish for."

She expected her father to change the subject then; he was visibly uncomfortable, and Sydney could hardly bear to think about it herself anymore. Instead, Jack said, "But since then – working with your mother again –"

_Working, _she thought dryly. _Right._

"—I've come to believe that I did know her, during those years. The details of 'Laura' were untrue, but not the reality of our life together. Your mother and I – she told me many lies. That doesn't mean our relationship was one of them."

"I know how badly you must want to believe that," Sydney said, trying to be gentle. "But, Dad – you know how you sound, right?"

"Yes, Sydney. I know." He didn't look happy.

They were quiet together for a while, neither of them comfortable, but each of them troubled by others who were absent, not one another. The meal she'd had and her tiredness combined to make Sydney's head heavy; she propped her head up on one hand, willing herself not to fall asleep. "I've done some things I'm not proud of – to strike back at Vaughn, the last few months."

Jack didn't ask what those things were, which was a relief. Sydney could not imagine ever discussing her encounter with Sark. – with anyone, really, but especially not with her father. "I've done that as well," he said. "It all comes back to what you said at the observatory."

"Me? What did I say?"

"We can't react," he said. "We have to act instead."

_Never let anyone else dictate our course of action ever again, _Sydney had thought. It was all so easy when it came to tactics, and so difficult when it came to people. "I'll try."

She wasn't sure if she was promising her father or herself.

 

**Outside Ekibastuz, Kazakhstan**

 

Irina had a lifetime of experience in channeling emotional pain to productive ends. Her distress at lying to Jack Bristow years ago had made her more attentive to his needs and fears – so much so that Jack had fully opened himself up to her, deepening the romance into truth. Her terror at having to leave Sydney behind one day had made her the most patient and giving of mothers, begrudging no moment to her child because she knew how few those moments would be. Her fury at Elena's cruelty and selfishness had bound her tighter to Katya, more appreciative of the real bonds of sisterhood after Irina had seen them so badly betrayed. And her horrible grief at losing Nadia had fueled her rise to power in the underworld, driving almost her every action for more than twenty years.

So, when Jack had revealed that Sydney still distrusted her mother, Irina was not one to brood long upon the injury. Instead, she focused on the most hazardous aspect of Sydney's plan: not her suspicion of Irina, but her belief in Sloane.

Therefore, Irina had put in a call to an associate in France, who had succeeded in tagging Sloane with a tracking device: isotopes in a prize bottle of wine, one of the ones Sloane had delivered to his house monthly. They would flush from his system in another few weeks, but for now his every move was hers to track. She had not been able to reach Karachi before he left it, but at this moment he was traveling very slowly over ground in Kazakhstan.

Irina grimaced as her jeep struggled up a steep, rock-strewn road in the mountains, engine straining. Traveling slowly was more or less the only way anyone traveled in Kazakhstan.

The winter wind was sharp enough to remind her of childhood Januaries in Russia. Pulling the jeep over into a clearing in the scrabbly underbrush, Irina wound her muffler more tightly around her neck and stepped out to get a look at her surroundings. The land was utterly desolate, too high up for much vegetation at any point in the year and none at all in winter. Though she peered through her binoculars in every direction, resetting focus to examine different bits of the horizon, she could see no human habitation, not even a shack.

_Sloane hopes to find something here, _Irina thought, remembering a dozen different expeditions she had led to retrieve various Rambaldi artifacts from similarly isolated areas. _Or someone._

She traveled on foot for the next half-mile, knowing that the road was now visible to observers from a distance; a lone figure in gray was unlikely to draw as much attention as a jeep. As she walked, Irina paid careful attention to her surroundings. Despite the difficulty of the journey, other wheeled vehicles had been here, and recently; the treads were embossed in dried mud beneath her feet. Two, three, four – Irina stopped counting the different tread patterns and satisfied herself that this road was frequently traveled, though nobody lived or worked here.

Irina double-checked the gun at her side, then took up the tracker. Sloane was close – her eyebrows lifted as she realized he was within a couple hundred yards of her, no more. How was that possible? He wasn't on this road, of that she was certain –

Her eyes went to the mountain itself. Then she focused again on the tire markings, following them for another quarter-mile before they turned – as though each of the vehicles had, at an identical moment, decided to turn and plow headlong into a stretch of rock.

Which, of course, was not rock.

The edges of the hidden doorway took Irina only a few seconds to find; she was backing away even as the cracks in the rocks became visible to her, as though widening in the shadows.

No – the cracks really were getting wider --

The door slid open.

Irina turned and ran, the gun still in her hand, pushing herself as fast as she could. She had no idea if she'd been seen or not – no time to stop and find out. The cold wind howled around her, so much so that it was difficult for her to hear, but she strained for any hint of sound behind her.

Footsteps. The metallic click of a gun.

She ducked off the road, half-leaping and half-falling down the edge. The ground was steep and studded with gravel; tiny cuts stung her hands, but Irina paid no attention, just kept moving as fast as she could. That wasn't nearly as fast now that she had to make her way through the winter-dry brush, but staying on the road meant death.

When she finally glimpsed the jeep, Irina allowed herself the smallest fragment of hope. Maybe she hadn't been followed. Maybe Sloane and his people were retreating instead –

Irina jumped into the driver's seat; the key was in the ignition. She slammed down the gas pedal, sending the jeep leaping forward, and risked one glance in the rear-view mirror.

Sloane stood there, troops around him, and Katya –

\-- Katya –

\-- by his side, with a gun in her hand. Just as Sloane had a gun in his.

There was no doubt that they recognized her. Irina knew that they could tell she'd recognized them. A shiver passed through her, not exactly relief, but not far from it. If Katya was here, then perhaps Sloane hadn't betrayed Sydney. Hard as it was to believe, maybe Sydney had been right about him after all.

And then Sloane raised his hand and fired.

The pain slammed into her shoulder, throwing her entire body to the side in a spin. Skidding wildly, the jeep swerved off the road, into the gravel, bouncing about wildly until it began to roll.

_Jump –_

But then there was nothing but darkness, and pain, and falling.


	7. Chapter 7

**Outside Ekibastuz, Kazakhstan**

 

Sloane kneeled by Irina's side, his fingers to her jugular vein. It was strange to him to touch her like this, stranger still to remember that there had been a time when he'd wanted to touch her. Irina lay on the ground, flat on her back, arms and legs splayed where they had fallen, her clothes spotted with blood. "She's dead."

Katya wiped away tears from her cheeks, but she kept her temper, accepting what had been done. "I never wanted this," she said. "Not for Irina. Anyone else, but not her."

"I shudder to think of how Sydney will react." Sloane shivered in the cold mountain wind; he had not prepared for this, any of this. The gray sky overhead seemed impossibly low, looming over them like a witness. "But this was necessary – and I think you realize that."

"I doubted your resolve, before," Katya admitted. "I will not do so again."

"Nor can I doubt yours." He rose from his place by Irina and walked to Katya's side. Clasping her gloved hands in his, he said, "Learning the truth sometimes means carrying nearly impossible burdens. Perhaps that's why Rambaldi's truth is only given to those who can carry that weight."

Katya's eyes were still red, but he saw her courage returning. Even Irina, it appeared, was not too great a price for her to pay. Sloane remembered those he had left behind in Los Angeles and knew he had not reached the end of his own sacrifices.

To the guards he said, "Her jeep's still running. One of you should put her in the back, drive a few miles from here, then recreate the accident scene." For a moment, Sloane let his hand graze Katya's cheek. "I know you'd prefer a burial for her, but I'm sure you understand why that can't be."

"These are my men to command," Katya replied, though her choked voice carried no real menace. None of the guards had moved; they all waited for her word. "But your suggestions are sensible. They should be carried out."

The guard nodded. "It will be done immediately, Monarch."

Katya stared down at her sister's body, her dark-blue coat stirring in the cruel winter wind. Surely some fine literary allusion existed for this moment, but Sloane found himself thinking, absurdly, of _A Christmas Carol_, and the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Be.

As Irina's body was lifted, Sloane watched her dark hair spill from her shoulders, the longest strands brushing the ground. He found himself remembering Emily's murder, and how Irina had pulled him away from his wife in her dying moments in order to save him. In all the years since, he had never known whether to thank Irina for that or damn her. It appeared that he had finally settled the question.

 

**Near Roanoke, Virginia**

 

A dark-brown horse galloped across the field nearby, kicking up its heels as though it were running through fresh grass instead of the slushy remnants of snow. Jack watched the horse for a few moments, taking an abstract sort of pleasure in its vitality, before refocusing his attention on the woman who stood at the fence nearby. She did not look away from the horse as Jack approached, but he knew better than to expect to surprise her.

"Beautiful," Jack said as he took his place by Olivia Reed's side.

"He's for sale, if you're in the market. Dutch warmblood. I only rode him for foxhunting; he's a steal at $200,000." Olivia did not lift her head from her folded arms across the fence railing. She wore a heavy green barn jacket, jeans and duck boots, thinking nothing of pairing them with expensive pearl earrings.

"I was surprised to hear you were back in the country." This information had not come from Echelon-intercepted calls or a well-placed source; instead, Olivia Reed's return to Virginia had been the subject of gossip columns in all the newspapers, discussing how the valiant widow of the senator was leaving to start a new life in Australia. The wire services even carried a photograph of her smiling bravely as she handed over the symbolic key to her adult-literacy program to its new spokesperson, some rock star Jack had never heard of.

Would Monarch have returned to the United States? Jack doubted it, and had cleared Olivia from his mental list of suspects as soon as he saw her in the paper. But that didn't mean Olivia Reed might not have much to tell them.

"Only two more weeks. Then the house will be sold, the horses with new owners, my clothing packed – all done." She turned to him at last, her smile a weirdly convincing approximation of warmth. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Agent Bristow?"

Jack was slightly taken aback by her ease, but he did not let it show. "Several sources of mine have suggested that you might have something to tell us about Rambaldi. Specifically, about a follower named Monarch."

Her mouth curled into a sneer – not for the question, Jack realized, but for the name Monarch itself. But Olivia said only, "My daughter followed Rambaldi, Agent Bristow – or may I call you Jack? That doesn't mean I followed Rambaldi. At any rate, neither her crimes nor my husband's have ever been attributed to me."

"Not in any official sense, no." He glanced over at the horse for a moment; it paced near them, as if attempting to eavesdrop. Sometimes the natural paranoia of his profession was almost amusing. "All the same, I think we might have much to discuss."

"We do, Jack. But not about Rambaldi. No, I think we need to talk about Michael Vaughn."

Jack straightened, more on his guard than ever. "I would've guessed that Vaughn would be the last person you'd want to talk about."

"My daughter's murderer? Your daughter's betrayer? I don't talk about him much, but I think about him all the time. About how he's free to pursue his own concerns – Rambaldi's concerns – while my daughter lies dead. And your daughter – how is she, these days?"

The mention of Sydney's remoteness cut into Jack as neatly as a diamond-sharpened blade. "You know that Vaughn is a Rambaldi follower. That information is fairly recent, suggesting you're still connected."

Olivia laughed. The horse pricked up its ears and trotted closer, obviously associating that sound with carrots or sugar. She obligingly produced a treat from her pocket as she said, "Perhaps the information is recent to you. It wasn't to my daughter. She was Michael's wife – or had you forgotten? I think Michael would like to forget. He forgets women too quickly, don't you think?"

The horse nosed Jack's hand, hoping in vain for another snack. Instead Jack stroked its forehead, his fingers brushing over the coarse hair, as he did a series of quick calculations:

First, Sydney's theory about Lauren having been Vaughn's co-conspirator in Rambaldi-related work was now proved correct. Jack had not seriously doubted this, but confirmation was always welcome.

Second, Lauren betrayed Vaughn as part of her work for the Covenant, so it followed that whomever Vaughn had been taking instructions from – whether Monarch or another source – was opposed to the Covenant. Therefore Covenant sources such as Olivia Reed were potentially helpful, however distasteful they might be. The enemy of his enemy might be, if not his friend, then his ally for the immediate future.

Third, if Lauren and her mother had worked together, as appeared certain, there was a good chance that Olivia knew what Vaughn and Lauren hid together in the safety-deposit box in Wittenberg three years ago.

"You're right, Mrs. Reed –"

"Olivia. Please." She reached out as if to pet the horse as well, but instead she splayed her hand on top of his, a touch that was neither a threat nor a caress. "You have such big hands. Mine are like a child's, compared to yours."

This obvious irrelevancy annoyed Jack, but it also told him how Olivia was attempting to operate. The bargains she hoped to strike were complicated and long-term. He said only, "We do need to talk."

"I thought about you sometimes." Olivia watched the horse amble off to resume his run. "I know your history. What must it be like for a man, to realize that the woman he loved was only playing a game all the while?"

Given her betrayal of the senator, Jack knew Olivia had good reason to wonder this, and his history had nothing to do with it. "I would imagine he wonders what it's like for a woman, having to play games every moment of the day and night."

"How difficult that must be." Sunlight peered weakly through the thin gray clouds, turning her golden hair almost white. "To have to pretend, every moment – to go to bed with a man you don't care for and seem to like it. And to watch a man claiming to 'love' what he doesn't even know—it would be torment. The result could be nothing but hatred."

Jack thought it wisest not to respond to this.

"But it would awaken such a powerful longing for another companion. A lover who shared your goals and your methods. Someone who needed the same kind of revenge." Olivia brushed her hair back from her cheek. "Perhaps that's why Irina Derevko took up with Arvin Sloane, so long ago."

He'd wondered why she was attacking so bluntly – but she had saved her best blow for last, and she'd hit deeply enough to affect him. Instead of disguising the fact, Jack looked quickly toward the horizon, breathed out sharply. The jealousy was of some use to him now, so he felt it in full; his hands clamped down on the fence railing, so hard he could feel splinters digging in. "I never thought of that."

"I did." Olivia put one hand on his shoulder, the same sort of impersonal affection she'd given the horse. "I have work to do here. But three weeks from now, in Sydney – I'll be settled in. I even have a private box for the opera. Fidelio. You should join me, as my guest."

"And then we could – talk," Jack offered.

"Yes. Talk."

He walked away without another word; none was necessary. Olivia Reed already knew that he would be meeting her in Australia, whether he liked it or not.

 

**Cologne, Germany**

 

Seven weeks, and no word from Sark. _Once upon a time, _Vaughn thought, _that would have qualified as good news. _

He was walking across the Hohenzollern Bridge, halfway across the Rhine, just another American tourist in his brilliant white tennis shoes and Tommy Hilfiger jacket. Ahead of him, the cathedral seemed to glow amid the dusk, silver and aqua, impossibly bright and sharp. Vaughn had come to Germany to seek a specific target – not Sark, who kept agreeing to meet with him but ominously postponing the time and place.

Otherwise, he would have given the country a miss, if possible. Germany stirred up too many memories: the childhood life of the father he'd never really known, the trip to Wittenberg with Lauren – and, of course, Sydney.

_("I like this outfit," Vaughn had said, tugging at one of the coiled blonde braids of Sydney's wig as they strolled away from the Biergarten. "Especially the skirt." _

"I think you like this outfit a little too much." Sydney had led him through the back alleyways toward their hotel room, toward safety. She'd grinned at him as he slipped his arm around her waist; her stiff, crinkly skirt rustled as he'd drawn her near.

"Would Marshall really notice if you kept this for a day or two? You could maybe wear it around the apartment." He'd waggled his eyebrows at her, doing his best dirty-old-man routine.

"I'm sure Nadia would love that."

"We'll wait until Weiss takes her out. Then we can play Bavarian barmaid and customer." Despite the joking around, Vaughn had become slightly aroused despite himself at the thought.

"Every man's fantasy. Beer AND sex." Sydney's smile had been as wide as he'd ever seen it. "I tell you what – you're on."

"For real?"

"If you'll just do one thing –" She'd leaned her forehead against his. "It would be so hot_ if you could find some lederhosen." _

They'd laughed so hard Vaughn thought they'd blown their cover.)

Vaughn took a deep breath and kept going. He wouldn't be doing Sydney or himself any good if he failed to focus. The only thing worse than having left Sydney would be having left her for no purpose.

The cathedral was closed at this hour of the night, but compared to the high-security systems Vaughn had dismantled in his career, the old-fashioned lock on the side door was easy to break. A security system beeped querulously as he opened the door, the sound echoing in the vast emptiness – but one shock from the scrambler Vaughn held in his hand silenced it.

Vaughn swept the beam of his flashlight across the interior of the cathedral, orienting himself. The classic cross-shaped floor plan was in place here, so it wasn't hard for him to head toward the nave he sought. He'd be looking for a diamond of marble in the floor grayer than all the rest, then carefully chiseling it out to get at the Rambaldi documents hidden beneath. He'd hoped to meet up with Sark for this, just so the work would go faster; it was a chore for one person working alone.

But he wasn't alone.

A wavering orange light, no bigger than Vaughn's little finger, hovered in the nave – a cigarette. There was no point in pretending he hadn't been seen, so Vaughn simply swung the flashlight's beam toward the figure standing there.

Thomas Brill's dark face shone in the flashlight's beam, and he responded to the illumination with a smile. "Matthias," he said, his voice ingratiating. "Nice to see you again – now that you're back on your feet."

Brill was the only person who had ever called Vaughn by that name – at least, when he was old enough to remember. He must have come here to steal the same documents Vaughn was after, but the stone beneath his feet was undamaged. Maybe Vaughn had gotten here in the nick of time. "I've been waiting to talk to you."

"I'll just bet –"

"Why the hell did you run me off the road in Santa Barbara?"

"I told you then. I came to deliver a warning."

"That 'warning' nearly got Sydney killed."

Brill smiled, the strange, unearthly smile Vaughn recognized too often among Rambaldi's followers. "I wasn't the one putting her in danger that day. You were. And you know it. What I can't figure out is why you didn't know it before."

Vaughn's guilt hit him hard, but he kept his voice firm. "I faced facts. I'm doing what I can."

"The Chosen One isn't gonna die before her time, Matthias. And she's not gonna live one day past it. Not a damn thing you or I could do about it – even though you're acting like you can change Rambaldi's prophecies just by making a nuisance of yourself." Brill's grin was insincere. "Funny how you kept the Milan Prophecy to yourself for so long. Didn't even tell your old pal Monarch, who was good enough to send me with that warning in Santa Barbara. Not very friendly of you. Some of us are still a bit curious about that."

"I don't think any of you give a damn about my motives. You learned the prophecy without me, right?" _Thanks to Lauren. _"End of story. You came here to talk to me for a different reason. I'd like to hear it."

"Actually, we've gotten right to the point. You're working against Monarch. Even though you were his protégé for quite a while there. Friends turned enemies: It's a pretty big change, and I think it deserves an explanation. Don't you agree?"

Vaughn went very still. Brill had worked with Monarch for a very long time, though Monarch had cast off other followers besides Vaughn in recent years. Either Brill was still a loyal servant – in which case, Vaughn's life was in danger – or he might be another potential ally.

"Monarch wants to rebuild the Mueller Device without us," Vaughn began. "I don't think that's appropriate. Do you?"

"Actually, Monarch wants to rebuild the Mueller Device without you."

Their eyes met. Vaughn knew at that moment that one of them would not leave the cathedral alive. Neither of them moved.

Vaughn kept his voice steady. "Monarch doesn't have friends, Brill. No allies. Just people who get used."

"I agree with you. But your loyalty's always been suspect –"

"My loyalty has always been to Sydney."

"The Milan Prophecy tells us a different story, doesn't it?"

Vaughn remembered the moment he'd no longer been able to hide from the truth – the wreck, the broken glass, Sydney's twisted body by his side. "I thought that prophecy was talking about – Sloane, or Sark. Maybe Robert Lindsay. For a while I even thought it might be her father. I never knew the man the prophecy talked about was me."

"Nobody did, back then." Brill's voice was deceptively friendly. "You think Monarch still would have set you on this path if anybody had known?"

_An SD-6 agent named Sydney Bristow has walked in at the CIA. Volunteer to take her case. Stay close to her at every moment. _

The old communiqué seemed to hover before Vaughn's eyes, and the impact of the memory confused him for the one second he couldn't afford to lose. In an instant, the gun was in Brill's hand, and his smile was gone. "Yeah, Monarch would have set you up anyway. That's the thing about prophecies – you don't have to know anything about them. They'll guide your life just the same."

Vaughn could have taken defensive measures, but it hit him – _Don't. Stay still, and he'll shoot, and then it never has to happen -- _

"I've been talking to Olivia Reed," Brill said. "Not the president of your fan club, by the way. She has some ideas about how all this is going to shake out – new ideas. More interesting than Monarch's, I think. And so I'm going to do her a favor. Not the favor she asked for, but – I think she'll like this one better."

Too late, Vaughn realized that Brill was neither his ally nor Monarch's – he'd switched allegiance to a third faction, Olivia Reed's. The splintering of the paradigm changed his tactics, his hopes, everything. "Betraying Monarch's gonna shorten your life expectancy."

"Sure as hell did for you." Brill shook his head. "I'm sorry about this, Matthias. Sorrier than you'll ever know. Especially since – I guess you couldn't be the man in the prophecy after all."

Vaughn heard the gunshot, a pop, never as loud as he expected. And even as Vaughn tensed, he knew: If you heard the gunshot, you hadn't been killed.

The gun tumbled from Brill's hand, end over end down toward the marble floor. Moments later, Brill slumped down to join it. A pool of blood began to spread, running through the grooves between the marble tiles.

"You owe me your life." Sark walked calmly up the cathedral aisle toward Vaughn, with his pistol at his side. He was elegantly dressed in a black suit that seemed to blend into the night. "I thought I should point that out. I may ask you to remember it in the very near future."

"Where the hell did you come from?"

"The door you left open behind you, of course." Lazily stepping around the edges of the widening pool of blood, Sark added, "You ought to have known he came here to kill you the moment he began telling you so much. Brill wanted to discover how much you knew before he murdered you – and you obliged him."

This was obviously baiting; Vaughn didn't rise to it. "Are you going to help me dig out these documents or what?"

Even working together, it took them the better part of two hours. Disposing of Brill's body in such a public area wasn't possible, but at least this way they didn't have to bother putting the stone back in place; no point covering up their presence when Brill so clearly broadcast it. Before they left, Vaughn went through Brill's pockets and found two items of interest. One was a message for Vaughn that described a meet in the Southern Hemisphere, one he suspected he'd better keep. The other was a lighter, which would come in handy.

Once he and Sark were halfway across the Hohenzollern Bridge, Vaughn stopped, held the papers out and took up the lighter.

"Without even reading them?" Sark's question was rhetorical. "The old curiosity dies hard."

"For you, maybe. Not for me."

Vaughn set the papers on fire, and together he and Sark watched the pages burn, curling up and trembling as they turned to ash. Every time they destroyed an artifact, every time he saw Rambaldi's spidery handwriting blotted out by cinders, it reminded him that at least he was doing something right. When the flames licked his fingers, Vaughn led the burning shreds fall, fluttering from side to side until they settled in the dark water and were no more.

"And there's an end," Sark said.

"To those papers, yeah. But we've got more to do."

"I meant, to our collaboration." Vaughn stared at him; he didn't care if he ever saw Sark again, personally speaking, but they were a long way from destroying all the components of the Mueller Device. As if reading his mind, Sark continued, "I suggest you continue your efforts, and I wish you every success. I will continue mine, but I intend to work alongside a different companion henceforth."

"Not that I mind saying goodbye to you, because I definitely don't – but is there any particular reason you're ending this partnership?"

"I'm not ending it. You're about to."

Vaughn's patience was running out. He glared at Sark, who was smiling at him in a way Vaughn didn't like. "Why would I do that?"

"Because I am about to complete a task given me by a lady." Sark's eyes locked with Vaughn's, clearly eager for every scrap of reaction. "Sydney wishes me to inform you that she is my lover."

It wasn't funny enough to laugh. "That would never happen."

Sark's eyebrows lifted. "Why should I lie about such a thing? Believe me, my astonishment was nearly equal to your own; Sydney's welcome was completely unexpected. But, on my errand in Austria, she did welcome me – against a wall, if you're curious. And afterward, she charmingly insisted that I inform you."

Syd wouldn't do that. She would never do that. And yet Vaughn had heard the coldness in her voice when they spoke on the phone, had felt the strength of her anger when they fought in Tel Aviv. She knew only that he believed in Rambaldi, that he'd worked against her, that Lauren had known the truth – and when Sydney got angry, she'd strike out in any direction, saving regrets for later --

His stomach clenched painfully, and for a terrible moment Vaughn thought he might cry, right there in front of Sark. But he kept his cool, kept his face still. "She used you." His voice didn't sound like his own. "You're nothing to her, except a way of getting to me."

"I know. Oddly enough, up against the wall, I didn't particularly care." Sark's hand was very near his gun, which was the only reason Vaughn didn't attack him that instant. He forced himself to remain motionless as Sark continued, "All the same, I have something you lack: time. I intend to go to Sydney – not now, but soon – and offer her my services. I expect to be refused, and more than once. But eventually, I think, she'll see the advantages of my proposal. You have left her a far more – pragmatic woman."

"She –" Vaughn's throat closed up – _Dammit_ – but he had to keep going. "She sees through you. She always has."

Sark shrugged and began walking away, returning to the area of the cathedral, obviously certain Vaughn would not follow. "Then she will eventually see that my intentions are honorable." As he finally turned his back on Vaughn, he called over his shoulder, "Besides – everything you possess becomes mine, in the end."

Then Vaughn was alone in the darkness, staring down at the swirling waters of the river, wishing he were free to throw himself into them.

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

"Agents Fontana and Burkett have considerable field experience, and neither of their psych profiles shows a tendency toward paranoia." Her father spoke as Sydney examined the two files, staring at the photos of a red-haired woman perhaps five years her junior and a black man who looked even younger. "They're fully competent, fully capable, and not inclined to ask questions."

"In other words, you think we can pull the wool over their eyes."

"That consideration also works in their favor."

Sydney paused, glancing around the perimeters of Jack's office, still the one he'd had before he took over APO, mentally questioning whether it was safe to speak frankly. He gave her the look that meant -- if she didn't know he had anti-eavesdropping devices all over this room, she'd never known him at all. "Right. So, we can fold them into APO and still keep up our own efforts."

"We'll have to combine official missions with our personal ones. In many ways, it should be similar to our double-agent experiences."

"I've missed those peaceful days so much." She made the joke almost automatically, and was pleasantly surprised when her father actually smiled. "Are you sure there's no way to stall any longer?"

"I've pushed Chase almost as far as I can. Until we hear from Sloane, I don't think we can risk delaying our return to active status."

Sydney met his gaze evenly; their shared disappointment and concern was clear, though she wasn't sure which of them was angrier, and which was more afraid. "Still nothing from Sloane."

"We knew he'd be gone for a while."

"But not without word."

"That wasn't part of the plan."

Either Sloane had betrayed them, or he was dead. Sydney wished desperately for a third option. "If we're using up brownie points to cover Sloane – I'm not sure that's the best thing we could be doing with our goodwill."

"Meaning?"

Her father knew what she meant, but he wanted her to say it. "We only have so many favors we can call in from Chase. We shouldn't waste them covering for Sloane if he's potentially let us down. He's the one who went out on a limb; let him deal with the consequences."

"Potentially," Jack replied. "Not certainly. If we abandon a member of our team, we may only be sabotaging our own efforts."

She decided that he'd steered the conversation long enough, and reclaimed the role of questioner. "Why have you given him so many second chances, Dad?"

"For the same reason you gave him one. Sometimes he seems to deserve it." After a pause, he continued, "Sloane's useful to us. We swore to him when this began that we'd cover him, because he's more suspect to our superior officers, in exchange for his expertise. Therefore I think we're committed to supplying that cover until we have more information."

Sydney knew he was right, but she disliked the fact that she had to work so hard to keep faith with Sloane, who had so rarely kept faith with her. But what about their current situation wasn't ironic? "I'm going to go. We only have another week to enjoy inactive status, so I'm taking advantage of it."

"I thought I might drop by later." Her father, who was so good at so many kinds of lies, was terrible at sounding casual; "casual" wasn't a mode of conversation he naturally possessed. "Maybe bring some Chinese for dinner."

She had no appetite these days, and knew the results showed in the mirror. Sydney wondered if she could just promise him she'd eat and forestall the visit, but probably not. They needed to debrief on her father's meeting with Olivia Reed anyway; he'd put it off earlier. "Sure." It was an afterthought when she added, "Thanks."

On the average day, Sydney parked her car in one of three different garages, each near a different subway stop; it was wisest not to have a predictable daily pattern. Today she was near Koreatown, a new addition to her roster. She considered the security measure an extra precaution, rather than a necessary one.

That was one reason she was so surprised to realize someone was in her car.

Sydney paused, her keys in her hand, noting the clear shape of a human form beneath a blanket – the blanket she kept in her trunk. As hiding tactics went, this wasn't particularly sophisticated. Was he a potential rapist? A carjacker? In any case, this was one criminal who had picked the wrong damn car.

She got her gun out of her purse, opened the car door and said, "You have five seconds to put your hands above your head before I blow you away."

"Hello, sweetheart." Her mother sat up slowly, moving like a person in pain, and Sydney could not have said which astonished her more – Irina's presence or the ghastly bruises on her face. "Your car is too easy to trace, you know. Promise me you'll try harder."

**

Half an hour later, Sydney brought a steaming cup of green tea to Irina, who half-sat, half-lay on the couch. She accepted it as if in slow motion, moving as gingerly as possible, a testament to the ugly gashes on her arms. Although Sydney had already bandaged her mother with the first-aid kit, she had not forgotten the sight of broken skin and torn flesh.

She set about dabbing hydrogen peroxide on the scrapes Irina wore on her cheeks. "I don't see how you got out of Kazakhstan in this condition."

Irina smiled, showing no sign of discomfort from the peroxide. "You got out of Taipei with a bullet in your shoulder, didn't you? I was lucky. Sloane's shot only grazed me, and I was within a few hours' drive of Almasy. A cargo plane there was bound for Amsterdam. After I got on the plane, I was able to – to rest." Irina's pause made Sydney wonder if the word that first came to mind hadn't been "collapse," or something very like it. "From there it was simple to stow away on a plane ultimately bound for Los Angeles."

Sydney touched the cotton ball to her mother's temple and watched it turn pink as it picked up flakes of dried blood. "Didn't you have people in Amsterdam? Or a way to contact them?"

"I had employees I could have called. Associates. But I came to you."

This display of maternal trust should have warmed Sydney deeply – she could feel the empty places inside where that feeling should be – but instead she could only fixate on what her mother had told her in the car. "You're sure Sloane did this to save your life?"

"When it comes to Arvin Sloane, it's best not to assume you're sure of anything." Irina breathed in the warm steam from the tea, her drawn face relaxing slightly. "But he took my pulse; I regained consciousness while his hand was at my throat. He knew I was alive, but he told Katya I was dead. Then he arranged it so that a single guard drove me away from the scene in my own vehicle. Sloane would have realized that I had a good chance to take the guard out, even injured."

Sydney considered this. Although she resisted the idea of putting her faith in Sloane under these circumstances, her mother's explanation of his actions was the only one that made sense. "And he did that to protect you from Katya."

"One of only two people I have ever trusted completely. Not even your father –" Her mother cut herself off, an abruptness Sydney didn't miss but didn't wish to examine. "Katya knows everything I know – about Rambaldi's work, the locations of my accounts and weapons – everything. But now I am forced to admit that I don't understand the beginning of her real plans." She took a deep breath. "Katya is Monarch. All this time – and I never knew."

"It can't be Aunt Katya," Sydney said slowly. But this automatic response died quickly. On the icy promontory she'd climbed, free of loyalties or grief, the view was clear. "But -- she did try to shoot me once. Later I saw that the gun was loaded with tranqs – but even then, she would have knocked me out and overpowered me. Katya didn't give us the intel about Elena's work on the Mueller Device until the last possible moment. She didn't tell us about Elena having framed you for putting a hit on my life, even though we talked with her before Dad set out to kill you."

The last sentence made Irina's head jerk backward, a weak, confused movement that didn't seem to belong to her at all. "She could have spared us all what we've suffered these past two years. She didn't."

"What if – Mom, she might just have been working with Elena –"

"No. Her guards called her by that name. Monarch. And the facts all fit the pattern; I was too blind to see it before." Irina pressed her lips together, her eyes narrowed in a grimace that held back tears. "My own sister. Katya."

The silence that fell in the room was as heavy as a blow. Sydney reviewed her own errors: she had listened to Katya, followed her advice, chased down the clues that incriminated Sloane, then Elena – only Katya's rivals for Rambaldi's devices, in the end. She'd done Monarch's work for her.

Her temples throbbed with an angry headache. It was safe to feel the anger now, because now it could not cloud her thinking. Now it was only fuel. "She was worse than we thought. Smarter, too," Sydney said. "Bad combination."

"She's trying to rebuild the Mueller device," Irina whispered. "And she's been playing all of us the whole time. Me, you, your father – Elena –"

"Elena too?"

"Think, Sydney." Her mother raked her band-aided hands through her dirty hair. "By allowing Elena to proceed so far in her plans, but ensuring that we would be there to stop her in the end – Katya laid the perfect foundation for her own efforts. Elena did the dirty work, proved Rambaldi's design operational and drew all our attention. She did everything for Katya, including taking the fall."

"And now Sloane is with Katya." Already she did not relish the idea of telling Weiss all this; he bristled at the mention of Sloane these days, and his language when talking about Rambaldi followers had gone from PG-13 to R. Although her confidence in Sloane was badly shaken, her mother's survival meant Sydney had to at least entertain the possibility that he was still on the right side. Weiss wouldn't be as understanding. "Anytime he's around Rambaldi's work for too long, I get nervous. Maybe he's fallen for whatever Rambaldi mystery she's chasing –"

"Perhaps. Or he may be attempting to play her in return. All we know is that he spared me."

"If you're determined to defend Sloane, then you might want to get it over with before Dad gets here. I doubt he'd like it."

Irina looked almost as if she had been struck, but it was Sydney who felt the blow – at least, that was how hard and fast the guilt came crashing in. Here was her mother, broken and bruised, having crossed half the earth to be with Sydney and no one else in her time of need –

_Which is exactly how she'd make you believe that you could trust her,_ Sydney reminded herself. _You can't let her get to you. Even the deepest love can lie. _

**

Irina had been warned; Jack's description of Sydney's state of mind had been brief – all his descriptions were – but she'd known to expect distrust, hurt, even coldness. Yet she hadn't been prepared for the depth of the despair that colored virtually every word Sydney spoke.

_She must believe that she sounds very tough,_ Irina thought. _Very hardened. If only she knew how well she broadcasts her own fear. _

That wasn't a lesson Irina could teach her, though. She had learned it herself in the early 1980s, in those first years when Nadia seemed lost forever and any real power was at least a decade away; Irina had behaved much like this, had thought it the permanent condition of her soul. In those days, she had convinced herself that she needed almost no human connections, that she would survive never seeing her daughters again, that she had never really loved Jack Bristow at all. It was a state of folly that only time could erase, far beyond the reach of even the most hard-won advice.

Right now, her sister's betrayal seared Irina more deeply than her daughter's coldness ever could. Katya – her heart protested, but the facts spoke for themselves. She had trusted Katya with a child's trust, with the same thoughtless, complete loyalty that only a child can give; they had slept in the same bed until Katya was a teenager, and sometimes in the night, Irina half-awoke and still expected to see Katya next to her, stealing the covers as usual. They'd told each other about their first kisses, first lovers, nightmares, hopes and silly puns they'd made up in the shower. And they had both hated Elena all their lives; Irina had been fool enough to think that common hate was common cause. With nobody else would Irina ever have made this mistake; with her sister, it had been too easy.

The world felt upside-down, strange, uncomfortable. Maybe it had been like this for Jack, all those years ago, when he learned his own hard truths.

Jack arrived after another half-hour, carrying bags of Chinese food that he immediately handed to Sydney. As he saw the bruises on Irina's face, his steps slowed, but he continued coming to her.

At that moment, Irina knew that she could either restore the barriers between them – so that they might work together simply as allies -- or let go of her anger and be done with them forever. Restoring the barriers was the smarter move. But in the wake of Katya's betrayal, she could not endure the thought of losing anyone else.

She held out her hand; he took it and sat by her side. It was as simple as that.

"I can't believe you still brought dinner." Sydney's voice was brittle; perhaps the sign of affection between her parents had disquieted her. Irina could think of many reasons why. "One-track mind."

"It's the first rule of emergency tactics, Sydney." Jack began examining Irina's injuries as he spoke to his daughter, cleaving his attention neatly in half. "Take care of the team."

Although Irina had never been able to share Jack's enthusiasm for American-style Chinese food, the first substantial meal she'd eaten in four days could not fail to be welcome. Sydney briefed Jack on what they'd learned, and Irina thought it best to let her take charge of the process; mostly it troubled her how little Sydney actually ate.

Jack immediately agreed with Irina's interpretation of Sloane's actions. That was a relief. Irina found it galling to have to owe her life to Sloane and more galling yet to defend him; at least Jack would not have to hear her do it.

However, he became noticeably tenser when Katya was first mentioned – but by the end he had accepted the identification as Monarch easily, almost too easily. This simplified things for him, of course; now he could look back on his liaison with Katya as something driven by Katya alone, a seduction intended solely to drive a wedge between husband and wife for tactical purposes. There was some truth to that, but it was a gross simplification of reality.

That simplification would make his night with Katya easier for Jack to live with. _Maybe,_ Irina thought,_ I should try to believe it too._ Illusions had their place.

Sydney referred to Katya only by her code name thereafter. "Okay, so, we have to figure out what Monarch's up to. We thought Olivia Reed might know something about that – Dad, did you get anything out of her?"

Jack shifted his weight on the sofa, visibly uncomfortable. "Olivia Reed is – someone we'll have to follow up with. I'm not sure she knows much about Monarch, but something she said suggested that she might know what Vaughn had hidden in the Wittenberg vault."

"What?" Sydney sat bolt upright, nearly upsetting her moo goo gai pan in the process. "Why didn't you tell me this?"

"I had meant to discuss it with your mother first."

"This is my operation, not Mom's. You should have come to me first."

"Certain aspects of this situation concern your mother more than you, Sydney. If you can't accept that –"

"Jack, just tell us both the truth." Irina already suspected that she knew what it was. How ironic, and yet appropriate, that it should link back to Katya in the end. Although she understood Jack's embarrassment at discussing this in front of Sydney, it was a shyness she did not share. "You mean that she's trying to seduce you."

He looked appalled, poor man. But he didn't deny it.

"Oh," their daughter said, apparently unable to manage anything else.

Sydney's blushes gave way to an astonished stare as Irina continued, "You should let her think she's succeeded."

Jack was clearly bemused. "I thought you had objections to that sort of thing."

Irina raised an eyebrow, mock-indignant. "We weren't referring to tactics, Jack." She would no more have removed this weapon from Jack's arsenal than unloaded his gun before a firefight – nor consented to be disarmed herself. However, it pleased her that he had hesitated; for Jack to weigh any emotional consideration ahead of strategy was a sign of a lesson taken deeply to heart.

_He feels guilt so rarely,_ she thought, studying his face. _When he finally admits guilt, he's almost defenseless against it. If he didn't feel so wretched for having been willing to kill me, he'd never have been willing to trust me. _

But that line of thinking demanded that Irina be grateful for her own attempted murder, so she cast it aside. Jack had allied himself with her again; the reasons why were insignificant.

The weight of Sydney's stare drew Irina's gaze – and Jack's – toward her, where the revulsion on their daughter's face was all too clear. "Do you two have any idea what you sound like?" She tried to sound cool, which made it all the worse. "Sitting there agreeing to cheat on each other over dinner?"

Jack looked rather as if he had swallowed his tongue. Irina sat upright, ignoring her protesting ribs and muscles. "Listen to me. If you're still too inexperienced to make hard decisions, that's your cross to bear, not ours. Think what you like. Your opinions are your own. But Jack is your father, and I am your mother, and you will not be rude. Do you understand me?"

Consciously, she had chosen to rebuke Sydney in the same terms she would've done when her daughter was five years old; as Irina had expected, it won a primal reaction from Sydney, anger mingled with shame. "It's your business, not mine," she said stiffly. "But you shouldn't talk to me about hard decisions after I've had to face Vaughn, and fight him."

"It's all right." Jack quickly handed Sydney a carton of rice – a kind of peace offering, so clumsy that Irina could almost have laughed. And yet it worked. Sydney settled back into her chair, somewhat pacified by her father's attention. "It's something for your mother and I to discuss. That's all."

"I should be adult about this." Sydney's calm worried Irina more than her anger had, by far. "We all use what we can use. And that's pretty much all there is to it."

True, and yet in Sydney's voice, it sounded so hard.

After that, they were able to discuss matters objectively for a while. Irina stayed awake as long as she could; they had important matters to discuss, and every moment she could focus on tactics was another that she could avoid thinking about Katya's betrayal.

Eventually, however, exhaustion claimed her, and she had to go to bed. As Jack took her hand to help her up, she said, "You'll stay, won't you?"

Jack seemed surprised by the question; it had surprised her, too. "Of course."

Over his shoulder, Irina could see Sydney open her mouth as if to object, then shut it again.

Jack helped her undress, wash, slip into one of Sydney's T-shirts that would serve as her nightgown. She was too weary and injured for lovemaking, but she wanted Jack to sleep by her side. Such a small comfort, but one she'd missed over the years.

It quickly became clear that she would need the comfort, but not because of her injuries or even Katya's betrayal. Irina had not realized that the free room in Sydney's house had once been Nadia's.

"She bought this in Argentina." Jack touched the edge of the brightly colored blanket that covered them both. "I was there on assignment with her. We walked through a market simply as part of our cover, but she saw this and had to have it. Apparently it was like one she had as a girl."

One more scrap of her daughter's life carried to her in the claws of crows. "I like the poster on the wall." A vintage ad for "Ninotchka" hung on the wall opposite, Greta Garbo's face imperious as she studied the couple in bed. "Did she like old movies?"

"I can't say. We never discussed it." He brushed a lock of Irina's hair from her cheek. "She mentioned Cary Grant once, so – maybe."

The space around Irina and her husband was filled with Nadia's presence; she had never been closer to her younger daughter, perhaps not even on one of the few precious occasions Irina had actually held her in her arms. The paperbacks on the shelves, the clothes in the drawers, a spray of fake flowers that looked like the sort of thing a magician might pull from a hat, even the soft yellow bathrobe still hanging on a hook – these were all chosen by Nadia, the reflection of her will. What she'd seen when she first woke up in the morning.

Irina drew Jack's hand across her waist, willing to endure the soreness across her abdomen in order to feel the touch. "I miss her. I always have. You'd think it impossible to miss someone you barely knew, but I've missed Nadia nearly every day of her life."

"Nadia missed you too." He was staring into the distance now – lost in his own memories of Nadia. It was strange to realize that Jack had known her, had even cared for her. "She always wanted to know more about you. The few pictures Sydney and I still had – we gave those to her, and she questioned us about every one. The one with your 'sister's baby' – that took some explanation."

"It was actually the child of one of my KGB supervisors," Irina said, remembering the fast work she'd done when Jack found that photo decades ago. "Did you tell her it made you propose to me?"

"Yes."

The idea of Jack revealing something so intimate to his wife's daughter with his best friend – it was so impossible that he could not have invented it. Jack's lies were more plausible. Irina could not even imagine that conversation, and yet it moved her to know it had taken place.

"She talked to anyone and everyone about you. Me, Sydney, Sloane, even Vaughn, I think. Nadia wanted the good and the bad – when you'd lost your temper, the lists of your crimes, the details of how you saved my life in the minefield in Kashmir." He spoke soothingly, as though these were the words of a lullaby meant to comfort Irina to sleep. "And she swore to kill your murderer. I had to do some quick thinking to convince her that she had."

Irina's throaty laugh held both rue and approval. "Economical of you."

"It allowed her to feel that she'd done you justice. She was the only one with that luxury."

A strip of photo-booth pictures was stuck slantways in a frame nearby: Nadia and Agent Weiss, eating cotton candy, making faces and finally kissing (big, exaggerated puckers) in the last shot. "Was she in love with Weiss? Or were they simply keeping company?"

Jack studied the pictures with her; he'd apparently never seen them before either. "Hard to say. But I think – I feel certain that Weiss was in love with her. He tends to her every day."

"That's good of him." Irina's gratitude had an edge to it, a sense of obligation. Because of their shared love for Nadia, now Weiss had to matter to her; his survival and well-being were now just two more variables in the complicated equations of her life. And the few people who mattered to her – Sydney, Jack, Katya, Nadia – they were the ones from whom all life's pain came. That was the price of it, and Irina did not mind paying, but all the same, she felt the burden of the new weight.

When tears blurred her eyes, Irina turned toward Jack and pressed her face blindly against his shoulder. His broad hand stroked the length of her back, up and down, matching the rhythm of her silent sobs. She could not have said whether she was crying for losing her daughter, or her sister, or whether it was simply knowing that so much of her life was only the memory of lost things, the empty cradle of her own hopes. Fortunately, Jack was wise enough not to ask.

 

**

"As in, she's in your house right now?" Weiss stared out the window at their apartment complex's shared courtyard, though he wasn't positive just what he was looking for. Irina Derevko out to fetch the morning paper, maybe?

"She wants to move to Dad's place soon. Somehow he's on board with this plan." Sydney helped herself to a cup of coffee from the percolator, as easily as though this were any other morning she'd strolled over for breakfast. "Once she's well, she can get herself out of the country easily enough. Until then, she's more or less part of our team, whether I like it or not."

Obviously it did not matter whether Weiss liked it or not either. The information that Katya Derevko was Monarch was useful, but emotionally it meant little to him; basically, it was just one more person who had screwed Nadia over while pretending to love her. Lousy, but at this point, no surprise. Weiss folded his arms and leaned against the edge of the kitchen island. "You're taking this really calmly, you know."

Her smile was both brief and unconvincing. "I've had a few hours to get used to it."

"I would be freaking out more than this if my mother were paying an unexpected visit, and as far as I know, Mom's never shot anybody. Though she definitely thought about it that time I gave my brother a Mohawk in eighth grade."

Sydney didn't even laugh, and that was high-quality anecdote material. "You haven't heard how she got injured. Or by whom."

"How does that come into it?"

Sloane, that was how. Weiss listened, his disbelief warring with his anger, as she described how Sloane had shot her mother and left her for dead in one of the more godforsaken countries of his acquaintance. Not that he'd ever fully trusted Sloane, because he sure as hell hadn't, but Weiss wouldn't have expected this. More fool him. But the truly stunning part of this whole revelation was that Sydney, Irina and Jack all seemed to think Sloane might have done it for a good reason.

"And none of you have asked yourselves, say, whether Sloane's playing all of you? That he needs Irina alive for the same reason he needs Katya to think she's dead – because it's all part of his master plan?"

She said shortly, "Yes, I've asked myself that. That might be true. It might not. We just can't take anything for granted."

_This is what happens when you make deals with crazy people, _Weiss told himself. _Syd seemed normal for a really long time, but let's face it. Jack, Irina – the genetic odds were against her. _

"I know you're going to make excuses to cover for Sloane," Weiss said. "Don't ask me to back them up. I'm not going to be a part of that in any way."

"I didn't expect you to."

That was just as cool and matter-of-fact as Jack would have said it – this from Sydney, the same girl who used to run over late at night with a sweatshirt over her jammies; they'd do a couple of tequila shots and make fun of bad movies on cable, and though they'd rarely talked about Vaughn and Lauren, that had always been there – something he was trying to help her handle in her own way. Weiss had never doubted Sydney's strength during that time, but he'd never doubted her vulnerability either. Even when he hadn't known her thoughts, he'd known her spirit: Whether miserable or giggling or all business, his friend Sydney was always there beneath it all. This Sydney – she was somebody else.

For a moment she seemed further away than Nadia, even than Vaughn, and Weiss became vividly aware of just how alone he really was.

Sydney and Jack both stayed out of the office that day – quality time for the family, Weiss supposed, though he wouldn't have wanted to name the quality in question – and Sloane was gone, which meant that Weiss had plenty of time to visit with Nadia in the morning, and then the office to himself.

Well, almost to himself.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to quit the CIA for the whole Mr.-Mom thing, not the best way to serve my country, but I see why people like it." Marshall was showing off "drawings" Mitchell had done, which as far as Weiss could see were mostly accidental collisions of crayon with paper. "When you want to be there – it's pretty nice, you know? Hanging out with my man. Playing blocks, coloring, learning our periodic table song –"

"But you're getting back into gear now, right?" Weiss watched Marshall's face carefully. It wasn't that he didn't trust Marshall – he did, absolutely – but that didn't mean he knew how Marshall would react. "Ready to tackle some mental gymnastics again?"

"Call me the Mary Lou Retton of the mind," Marshall said, then frowned. "That was funnier in my head than in reality."

_Sydney would kill me for this,_ Weiss thought – but it had no emotional impact; the words were just words, one more obstacle he was going to overcome for Nadia's sake.

"I have a project for you," he said, pulling copies of certain intriguing Rambaldi papers from his briefcase. "It's kind of a personal project. Just between us. I don't know how else to put it."

"Is this –" Marshall glanced around the empty halls of APO before stage-whispering, "Is this what you and Sloane and the Bristows have been working on?" Weiss must have looked just as appalled as he felt, because Marshall hurriedly added, "You've been sneaky! Super-sneaky, I promise. Director Chase, Dixon, they don't know a thing. I'd bet money on it, if I were a gambling man, which I'm not, despite the whole card-counting ability, which is kinda sad when you think about it. But Sydney had asked me to develop an algorithm to track Vaughn's movements, and it worked so well I was thinking we might use it more often. I plugged Sydney's travel in just as a beta test, and, well, patterns emerged."

"You kept it pretty quiet." It was all Weiss could think of to say.

"Well, yeah, so did you."

Marshall spoke simply, but Weiss understood enough to tell him, "Listen, you know it's got nothing to do with trusting you, right? I wouldn't be showing you this stuff if I didn't trust you. Syd and Jack do too." That was probably stretching the truth, but in a good cause. "But it's dangerous, and you have a wife and kid, and – that matters, you know?"

If Marshall felt any concern about this disclaimer, he didn't show it. "What's in the folder?"

"If I understand this stuff – and that is a huge if – it might be a way to help Nadia." He spread the diagrams out on the table in front of Marshall, grateful to have his friend's big, squishy brain on the case. "They keep talking about this stuff – 'colcothar,' I think that's the word – well, it might awaken people after they've been exposed to the effects of Mueller Device –"

"Hey, that's great!"

"—but it also might kill them. So I'd like to fall on the right side of that line, obviously."

The formulae written all over those pages were complex, far beyond Weiss' ability to deal with, but he could see Marshall brightening at the challenge. All those jotted little numbers and letters would make sense for him, and they might get an answer. An answer to help Nadia at last – that was all Weiss felt he could ask for any longer.

"Just one tee-tiny question." Marshall never took his eyes from the papers. "Do Sydney and Jack know you're bringing me into this?"

"No." Before Marshall could even get the hurt look on his face, Weiss quickly added, "That's not about you. I don't want to get their hopes up, you know?"

He wasn't entirely sure Marshall believed him, but it didn't necessarily matter. Marshall nodded, accepting it. "I'll bring the results to you. Nobody else. And we'll take it from there, right?"

"Right."

They all had secrets in this, Weiss rationalized. Sydney and Jack kept some things to themselves, and probably Irina Derevko – the freakin' prom queen of Rambaldi followers – had been told more about this than he had. And Sloane damn sure was keeping a few of his cards close to the vest.

So now Weiss had his own secret. And if it was dangerous – he knew enough from the notes to tell there was real danger here – then that was just the risk he'd have to take.

_You're taking a chance with Nadia's life –_

He cut the thought off almost immediately. Somebody had to take a chance for her, and it looked like he was the man to do it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sydney, Australia**

 

"We named you after the city, you know."

Sydney smiled – just a little, but it was the first evidence of a smile Jack had seen from her since her mother's return to Los Angeles. As such, he felt encouraged. "You never told me that before."

They were walking up the steps to the opera house, the water glittering brightly in the sunset just a few feet away. His daughter's arm was looped in his; Jack wore his tuxedo and Sydney was wearing a pale yellow dress that made her look beautiful, though he felt strangely shy about telling her that. For once, it felt more natural to talk to her about the past. Now that Irina had returned, it was easier to do so. "I was on assignment here when my handler let me know that your mother had gone into labor. I had to stay in place, carry out the mission, but – I couldn't focus." The younger man he'd been seemed like a character in a story Jack had read once, a story he'd loved.

"Thanks for telling me. I mean – I like knowing." The tenuous closeness between them seemed to be opening up again, but the smile almost instantly faded from her face. "There's Olivia Reed."

Jack squinted through the crowd and caught a glimpse of brilliant blonde hair; Olivia wore black, befitting a widow, and was many paces away. Perhaps she hadn't seen them yet, but it didn't really matter if she'd glimpsed them both; Sydney's presence was necessary to his cover story. They were on official CIA business, after all.

He clicked the comm on. "Report."

"Everything's proceeding according to plan," said APO's brand-new agent Fontana, who was at this moment slowly shutting down the security systems at a nearby bank. She and Burkett would spend the evening obtaining financial records of a suspected gun-runner; this was the official reason for the trip, with Sydney and Jack in a nominally "supervisory" role. The gun-runner in question was actually at the opera that night, which meant that Sydney and Jack were supposedly tailing him while serving as potential backup for the new agents. Nobody, least of all Director Chase, needed to know that the gun-runner had been tempted to the show by an off-book connection of Jack's, who would spend the night discussing a deal that would never come to fruition.

"Maintain radio silence until you're at the point of target acquisition, Manta," Jack said, referring to her only by code name. "Break that silence only if you or Moray run into unforeseen trouble."

"Copy that, Raptor. We'll talk to you then."

"You'll actually talk to Phoenix. She'll guide you through it." He put a note of reassurance in his voice, in case Fontana needed it; for all that she was an inconvenience, she was blameless, and young. "Everything should proceed smoothly."

"Got that." He could hear the smile through the link. "Manta out."

Sydney continued walking up the steps with him throughout this, but as they reached the top, she released his arm, and he let her go, somewhat regretfully. "I'd better leave you. Time for your big 'date.'"

Bitterness cracked in her voice at the last word. Jack knew it was difficult for Sydney to understand – it embarrassed him to even acknowledge this errand to his daughter – but the ever-springing well of anger in her these days was something he thought he would never get used to.

These days – he always thought of it as a temporary phase, something she'd go through, like her adolescent passions for one thing or another. But what if Sydney was truly changed forever? They still had moments of closeness, but they were few and far between, and invariably the confidences of people who shared the same kind of scars. Jack had always wanted to shelter her within this business; he had undertaken some of his darkest tasks so that Sydney would never even have to ask herself if she would do the same. He'd hoped to guide her from it long before it ever got to this point. Maybe he was too late, yet again.

Jack touched Sydney's shoulder before he left her. If this made any impression, he could not see it.

As she'd promised, Olivia Reed waited for him in a private box. Her dress, though black and decorous, left no curve of her slim figure to the imagination; a bottle of Champagne chilled in a silver stand, and two crystal flutes were at the ready. "Jack," she said, smiling at him almost luminously. "I was so pleased to learn you'd be able to make it."

"This is a nice welcome, Olivia." Might as well get used to calling her by that name now. He allowed his awkwardness to bleed into his voice and movements; he could use that to his advantage. "Forgive me. It's been a while."

"Since the last first date? For me too." She took his hand briefly as he sat beside her. "It seems as though you'd know how to navigate such a thing by the time you turn 40, doesn't it?"

"Nobody's ever an expert. Only people who believe they are, and people who know better."

Olivia smiled, but he could glimpse the lingering distrust in her gaze. "I never imagined you'd submit to this so easily."

He made a point of studying the curves her gown revealed. "I admit, submission isn't one of my specialties. As you'll discover." She raised one eyebrow, amused but not convinced. "You've offered me a chance to get revenge for what was done to my daughter. If you don't think that's enough motivation – then I don't think you know your man."

"I think I do." Her hand rested lightly on his wrist. "Or I will."

The lights dimmed, then brightened: only a few minutes until curtain call. As the orchestra musicians settled into place beneath them, Jack poured his own Champagne and topped off Olivia's glass. The drunker they were for this, the better, and he had no doubts about losing control.

"To justice," Olivia said, holding up her glass.

"To justice," he repeated. She'd chosen one of the only toasts he could wholeheartedly endorse.

As the lights dimmed again, she whispered, "I saw your daughter. You arranged for a CIA cover for this, didn't you?"

She'd made exactly the right assumptions, which made it easy to smile at her. "I thought it best."

"I suspected you might. So I planned a little surprise for her with an old friend – a mutual friend of ours, I think. You remember Thomas Brill?" When Jack stared at Olivia, alarmed, she laughed. "Don't worry. He's no longer a factor. But I think that, before he died, he issued an invitation for me. This meet will prove a point I've wanted to demonstrate for a while now. And Sydney will find it a pleasant surprise, I promise."

"I'd prefer to be the judge of that."

As the overture began, Olivia squeezed his arm. "I think revenge is always pleasant. I'm giving Sydney a chance at hers – and mine. I assure you, it's no small gift."

_Vaughn. _

Jack could only remain in place, but he hoped against hope that Sydney would remain oblivious to Olivia's surprise.

**

Through the opera glasses, it looked like her father and Olivia Reed were having a wonderful time. Sydney found it more than a little repulsive, but then, she'd had to get cozy with a few repulsive characters herself from time to time: obese Russian arms merchants, a Peruvian assassin with bad breath. No doubt her dad was just as good at making nice, even if he employed the talent a whole lot less often.

But it was her father – still married, in some mixed-up sense of the word, to her mother –

_It's not as if he can betray their vows, _she told herself savagely. _ Those are already broken too many times to count, right? _

It shouldn't have mattered to her. Sydney told herself that it didn't matter to her, not really; the disquiet she felt belonged at least as much to the memory of the wedding vows she'd so nearly taken with a man who had lied to her almost as profoundly as Irina Derevko had ever lied to Jack Bristow.

As the opera began, Sydney looked away from the private box; in situations like that, you sometimes worked best when you felt you weren't being watched. Quickly she examined the areas around the exits; no extra guards, so Olivia had come alone, unless she'd replaced a couple of ushers with her own people. But why should she feel herself at risk? The only unintended consequence of this night, for Olivia Reed, would be a single conversation. The truth about what Vaughn had hidden in the vault at Wittenberg would finally come out –

And there he was.

No. She was thinking about Vaughn, and that was why she thought she saw him -- but no, she definitely really saw him. Across the room, holding his own opera glasses, Vaughn stiffened; he'd seen her too.

Sydney let the opera glasses fall and turned to go; a few music lovers scowled at her as she hurried up the aisle to the strains of _O wär' ich schön mit dir vereint._ She felt as though she couldn't breathe in this stupid dress.

It hadn't been like this in Tel Aviv – but in Tel Aviv, she had known to hate him. Now that there was reason to suspect he might share her goals (_might be, maybe, you don't know_), Sydney didn't even have anger to support her. Without that, she had no armor, no shield.

Vaughn's voice whispered in her ear, "Syd. Tell me why you're here."

She jerked around, half-expecting Vaughn to have run out of the auditorium with her, but he was speaking through the commlink. "How did you get this frequency?" she demanded, leaning against the wall of the lobby, flattening her hands against it.

"APO uses a specific bandwidth range, remember? If you've ever known it, you can probably hack it." He was whispering, as though he had remained in the opera house, no doubt annoying all those nearby. "You guys can change passwords, but you can't change technological reality."

"I don't know – Marshall seems to do that a lot. And I'm going to make sure he tries."

"You do that." Vaughn's clipped words were terse – almost as if he were angry at her. But of course he was: Sark. Sydney had never forgotten the errand she'd charged him with, nor the enjoyment Sark would have in completing it. But it still felt strange to be confronted with a Vaughn who knew she'd had sex with his worst enemy –

\-- with a Vaughn who had the audacity to believe he had to right to be angry at anything she did, ever.

"Why should I tell you why I'm here?"

"Because if you're here to kill Olivia Reed, I'd like to suggest that the honor should definitely be mine."

_He'd like her dead before she can tell the truth, _Sydney thought. But she couldn't hint that she was so close any potential discovery. "She invited us here, actually. I don't usually shoot my hosts. I don't pay the same courtesy to uninvited guests, so I'd like to suggest that you get the hell out of here before I find you."

"You want her alive? You're the only ones." Vaughn breathed out. "She invited me too. Which of us has been set up here?"

"You."

"Agreed."

Sydney wanted to shout at him for assuming that they agreed on anything. But then, through the commlink came another voice, a woman's. "Phoenix? This is Manta. Are you there?"

"Copy that, Manta." They shouldn't have been in touch for a couple of hours yet: something had gone wrong. And now, of course, Vaughn was listening in on CIA business – but there was no way to shut him out, no way to warn Manta without giving him away, and by extension, giving away the fact that she and Jack had come here with a secret agenda of their own. Vaughn, no doubt sensing all of this, remained quiet as Sydney asked, "Is there a problem?"

"We got to the final door, but then -- Moray seems to have tapped into an, uh, unforeseen security measure. Not the bank's: something private. Our target's insurance policy, probably --"

"What do you mean, insurance? Manta, tell me exactly what you're seeing."

"Well, this electronic counter -- it looks just like a lock, exactly like it, until you cut in, but after that – after that it looks a lot like a bomb. A type neither of us has ever seen, but definitely a bomb. Cylindrical, different wiring systems on either end – and a counter."

Sydney straightened up; her father, Olivia Reed and even Vaughn all faded into the background. "What does the counter say?"

"Eighteen minutes, 49 seconds – 48 –"

She began hurrying through the lobby, heading toward the steps outside. The bank was a quick run, but she'd need to steal a vehicle to have enough time to work. "Stay calm, Manta. I know the kind of device you're talking about, and I can defuse it. I'll be there ASAP. Don't touch anything, and get as far away as you can from the device without leaving the bank or revealing your presence. Got it?"

"Copy that, Phoenix." But Manta didn't sound happy as she signed off. Sydney didn't blame her. Eighteen minutes before a bomb big enough to swallow the bank went off – it was closed, so nobody would die but Fontana, Burkett and the bank guards, but that body count was already a hell of a lot too high.

Sydney ran down the steps of the opera house, her gown's skirt in her hands; night had fallen, and she had a strange moment of feeling vaguely like Cinderella fleeing the ball. But no coach-and-four would be waiting for her –

A white SUV barreled up, screeching to a halt nearby. The door opened, and Sydney gaped to see Vaughn there, one hand still on the steering wheel.

He said only, "We don't have time to argue."

**

Though the commlink still in his ear, Vaughn could hear the opera still playing – _"Hat man nicht auch Gold" _– through Jack's connection as Sydney told him about the bomb Manta and Moray (whoever the hell they were) had found. She didn't mention him: interesting. Jack didn't respond; probably he couldn't. Vaughn just concentrated on getting to the bank as fast as possible without getting arrested.

In the few moments that he could afford to take his eyes off the road, he studied Sydney. She was painfully thin, but still so beautiful it hurt just to look at her –

"Pay attention to what you're doing," Sydney demanded. "The last time I rode in a car with you, it didn't go well."

"The bomb's probably a T-11. They're sensitive to radio frequencies. You should tell your agents to go radio-silent."

"They already know that's their default position. Do you hear them talking?" She fastened her seat belt. "I'll need cover to get into the bank. Some help while I'm in."

"Got it." Already the bank was within sight. (He suffered no anxiety whatsoever whether they would succeed; either of them could dismantle a T-11 in their sleep.) Once they got in, they wouldn't have any time for talking. This might be the last time he ever spoke to Sydney, and the words ought to count for something. "Syd?"

"I could do without the small talk."

"About Sark –"

Their eyes met. He had been prepared to see her exalt in the pain she'd caused him; instead, he saw that Sydney was wounded, that her attempt at revenge had hurt her, maybe as much as it had hurt Vaughn himself.

Quietly, he continued, "I don't have any say in your personal life. I know that; I accept it. But – watch out for that guy. Even when he's on your side, he's really only out for himself. You know that, right?"

"Yeah. I do." She tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear, a gesture so simply and irreplaceably Sydney that Vaughn almost threw all caution to the winds and kissed her anyway. He'd have received a bullet in the brain for his trouble, but it might have been worth it.

Even when she hated him – even when she hurt him – she was still perfection.

"How's Weiss?" Vaughn got no reply. "Nadia – is there any change?"

"Why do you care?"

No, she wasn't going to take anything for granted with him anymore, not even friendship. "Pretend I do, all right? I'm helping you defuse a bomb. The only charge is a little information about my friends."

"Nadia hasn't changed. Weiss is about how you'd expect, considering." Sydney wouldn't face him anymore; she kept her face turned toward the window opposite. "Now, can we please not talk any more than necessary? I've got enough trouble tonight between the bomb and pimping out my own father."

Vaughn replayed that. "Tell me you didn't just say what I think you just said."

"That would be talking. Remember?"

He braked hard about a block short of the bank; driving straight up the steps was the kind of thing that tipped off even the stupidest security guards. They both hurried from the vehicle, Vaughn pausing only to toss the keys beneath the seat.

"The two guards on duty are near the back entrance," Sydney said, no doubt giving him intel from Moray and Manta's earlier reports. "I'm going straight in the front door."

"I'm going to be an American tourist who can't find the opera house."

Sydney glanced over her shoulder, where the building's white sails were brilliantly silhouetted against the ocean at night. "That's one clueless tourist."

"Hey. Nobody does it better."

For one golden moment, he thought she might laugh – but then she ran from him toward the bank, intent on her mission, flying back into her real life, the one that contained him no longer.

_It's enough, _Vaughn told himself as he assumed his best dumb grin for the guards' sake. _Just to have helped her one more time. _

But the hollowness inside him told the real truth.

 

**

Sydney could hear Vaughn's voice around the corner, drawling in a Southern accent: "Now, there is just no way THAT is an opera house. A church or something, maybe. But for singin'? Pull the other one."

She bit her bottom lip as she finished dismantling the security system on the front door; it kept her from smiling.

Quickly, she drew the metal spike from the high heel of her shoe; two jabs and the lock turned. Sydney slipped out of the other shoe and ran into the lobby in her bare feet. She tossed her heels lightly into a corner, to grab later if events allowed, and rummaged in her purse for something that looked a lot like a cologne spritzer.

As she appeared in the side hallway, she saw Vaughn standing there, staring slackjawed out the open side door at the Sydney Opera House; the two guards flanked him, each with their hands on their hips. "You swear you're not puttin' me on?" Vaughn asked, before ducking to the floor.

Sydney hit the spray mister as she thrust it into one guard's face, then the other; they doubled over almost instantly. From her purse she grabbed a treated handkerchief that would protect her face, then ripped it in two and tossed the other half to Vaughn.

"Thanks," he muttered through the muffled cloth. "Let's move."

They ran together toward the vaults, Sydney leading the way. She'd studied the blueprints thoroughly in preparation for the "real" mission, so she knew where to go. "We're gonna have to move through the walls," she said. "You'll boost me up, and I'll need you to spot me while I work. As soon as I dismantle the counter, you go."

Vaughn's eyes met hers, and she knew he understood something that Sydney hadn't consciously recognized herself until this moment: She wanted him to leave before Fontana and Burkett saw him.

In other words, she wanted him to get away.

If Vaughn had said one word of gratitude, Sydney would have hated him. Instead he stayed focus, as though this were business as usual. "There yet?"

"Here." She found the right panel and positioned herself beneath it. As she stepped into Vaughn's interlocked hands, the electricity of the touch unnerved her – his palm against her toes.

Her fists pushed the ceiling service panel away, and then Sydney was able to grab the edges and pull herself up. Every muscle in her arms and shoulders strained – though Vaughn helped her, his hands on her legs, pushing her on. Once she shimmied into the crawl space, mentally cursing her dress, she called, loudly, "Manta? Moray? Do you hear me?"

From a distance, she heard Burkett's voice. "Over here."

Sydney glanced down at the open square of light she'd just left and lowered her hand. Vaughn nodded before he took it, a sign that he'd heard Burkett, knew how far away the other agents were and how much safety he had. How much safety they had.

Somehow, his safety was hers again.

**

It felt like eighteen hours, not eighteen minutes.

Vaughn lay near Sydney in the crawl space, their bodies not even a foot apart, but separated by panels and pipes and wiring. Only their faces and hands were visible to each other in the thin stripes of light shining up from the bank below. Earlier, when his hands were free, he'd loosened the tie of his evening suit so he could breathe in the stifling heat, and the dark shirt was open at the throat. Her diamond earrings glinted as they swung back and forth with her every move.

"I'm going to cut the blue."

"It's too close to the green –"

"Not if you hold it steady."

So his fingers slipped almost between hers, neatly capturing the green wire and holding absolutely still while Sydney worked around him. He could feel the warmth of her wrist half an inch from his own. One curl, escaped from the jeweled combs in her hair, dangled low and brushed against his knuckles.

"Good," he murmured, every time she made progress. "That's good."

She didn't need to be told that, probably, but on the other hand, she didn't complain.

At last, Sydney cracked open the core of the T-11, gave it the one-two-twist-three Vaughn remembered from advanced training – and the counter stopped. Both of them sighed at once. Sydney let her head drop to her hands, just for a moment. "Jesus."

"He couldn't have done it any better."

He saw her smile, but then she lifted her head, serious again. "You have to go. Now."

Of course. Any moment now, she'd have to find Manta and Moray – and if he were here when that happened, he'd go to jail. "Thanks for the getaway time."

"You helped me save their lives. That's earned you the right to walk out the door. But that's all, Vaughn." Sydney's eyes weren't as hard as her voice. "You don't get anything else from me."

"I understand." He should have gotten the hell out of here long before now. Even agreeing to help her had been more danger than he should have risked.

But Vaughn couldn't bring himself to merely crawl away.

As though she'd read his mind, Sydney whispered, "Don't say anything."

Vaughn wouldn't disobey her, but he wouldn't just go.

Carefully, taking it slow so that Sydney had time to pull away, he reached out and took her hand in his. She flinched, as though in pain, but she didn't pull away. Vaughn held on tight – palm to palm, heartbeat to heartbeat, looking into her eyes and willing her to understand –

_Not everything. Please, _he thought,_ never let her understand what I've done, what I'm going to do. _But he had to believe that someday, maybe, Sydney would understand what he really felt.

She didn't speak, but as he gripped her hand, her lips curled in a half-smile that threatened tears. Vaughn squeezed a little tighter, but she shook her head, silently begging him to go.

He released her hand. _The last time,_ he thought. _The last time. _

Then he pushed himself away from her, dropped to the floor, and ran as far and as fast as he could.

 

**

 

During the intermission, Olivia excused herself, which gave Jack a chance to check in with Sydney.

"I've defused the T-11, but there are secondary charges." Sydney sounded depressed, which was worrying, but she seemed to have no anxiety about the bomb itself. "It's going to take time, that's all. We might not be out of here for hours."

This actually worked to Jack's advantage, though he couldn't admit that with Fontana and Burkett on the line. "Copy that, Phoenix. Get in touch if you have further complications. Raptor out."

He settled back into his seat, sipping deeply of his Champagne. In a perverse way, he was almost glad of the complication, assuming all went according to plan and Sydney exited safely; it meant that she might not have encountered Michael Vaughn after all. Though he had no doubts regarding his daughter's ability to deal with that situation, he knew how deeply it would hurt and distract her. Then again, she had sounded so blue –

Jack sighed. Olivia Reed had chosen her surprise too well.

As though his thoughts had summoned her, Olivia reappeared. Jack could appreciate her beauty in an abstract sense; that appreciation needed to become far more concrete fairly soon. In fact, they might as well make an early exit during the second act. He'd never been all that fond of _Fidelio. _

When the music began again (_Gott! Welch Dunkel hier!_), Jack confessed, "I always find this story implausible, even by the standards of opera."

"Which part is it you find unconvincing?" Olivia did not turn her head from the scene before them, but he could tell that she felt his gaze on her. Her cheeks darkened slightly in the pleasure of being admired. "The faithful wife, or the husband's rescue from danger?"

"It all sounds absurd." He traced a fingertip along the line of her arm. She shivered beneath the touch, obviously as eager as he was to begin, though no doubt for different reasons. "I believe we save ourselves from trouble."

"No rescuers. No faithful ones far away," she murmured, leaning closer to him. "Only ourselves and our wits – and companions intelligent enough to know the score."

Jack still felt utterly unmoved by her. That was going to have to change; certain kinds of pity might loosen a woman's tongue, but Jack had no intention of inspiring them. "It's an inviting prospect." He brought his hand up to her face, ran fingers through her hair. "And yet so difficult to find."

"When two people share the same goals –" Vaughn's death, she meant, and the flickering lust in her eyes as she spoke was unnerving. "—I like to think anything's possible."

They kissed. She tasted like the Champagne and smelled incense-sweet. And though Jack could feel his body beginning to respond almost automatically, he knew nothing resembling passion. Ah, well. He'd undertaken less enjoyable tasks. At least Olivia kissed well, yet in a way that reminded him not at all of Irina –

It flashed up inside him, instantly overpowering almost all other thought: _Was it like this for Irina, the first time?_

Probably it had been. They became lovers on their second date; Jack had seen it as the beginning of a whirlwind courtship, but for Irina, at that point, it could only have been part of the job.

Every time he'd had such thoughts in the past, they'd excoriated him – now, he found them perversely thrilling. Doing this – kissing Olivia deeper, closing his hand around her arm to hold her fast, his mind curiously divorced from his ever-more aroused body – felt like spying on Irina during that first lovemaking, more intimate than any other kind of voyeurism. The hinted knowledge of Irina's erotic past worked like an elixir, exciting him instantly and almost past all patience.

"To hell with the opera," he whispered against Olivia's neck.

"I couldn't agree more."

They kissed on the stairs, in the lobby. Jack kept replaying moments from that first liaison with Irina in his mind – the passionate kiss by the surf, the way he'd fumbled with his car keys in his nervousness, the blue bikini she'd worn and how white her skin seemed as he unfastened it, pulled it away – and the images exhilarated him in ways memory had been unable to match in decades. By the time they were in the back seat of the limo, the spell held him fast.

"I knew it would be like this." Olivia guided his hands to her breasts; Jack took a moment to feel embarrassed for the limo driver before relaxing back into his work. "You're the first lover I've taken for myself since I was 23 years old –"

Jack almost pitied her. "Tell me we're almost there."

"Close." Olivia arched beneath him, eyes half-shut. "We're so close."

**

Sydney walked past the white SUV, wishing she could steal it again for the trip back to the opera house; she'd worn these absurd heels in the belief that she wouldn't have to run tonight. By now, she should know better than to count on that.

She left the vehicle alone. If the opera hadn't ended yet, it would soon, and a very unhappy owner would be reporting it as stolen. The definition of an unsuccessful mission would include ending up in an Australian jail as a car thief.

Her yellow dress was crinkled from hours spent huddled in vents and corners, defusing all the various devices that had stood between them and their goal. Fontana and Burkett hadn't had the necessary explosives experience – they'd start remedying that tomorrow – but the two agents had kept their cool, even when it looked desperate. That was good. Her father's commlink was not only quiet but dead; he'd turned it off for privacy, obviously, which meant – okay, she wasn't going to think too hard about what that meant, but his plans were going well.

So Sydney should have felt satisfied, maybe even elated. Instead, all she could think of was Vaughn.

_How's Weiss? _

Like he cared. Like he was the same guy he'd always been – Weiss' friend, a loyal agent, her love.

Even Sark hadn't shaken him. She'd done it to hurt Vaughn, and there was no mistaking that she had succeeded, but instead of lashing out in anger, he'd tried to speak to her kindly. It was more than a little absurd that he'd tried to warn her against Sark, as if she needed such a warning – but even after that, he'd wished her well.

Sydney stopped, staring out at the ocean. Her father's link was dead, and she knew Fontana and Burkett had already killed theirs as well, so she was free to say, "Vaughn?"

Silence. Then he whispered in her ear again. "You're okay."

"Yeah, I'm fine." She swallowed hard. "Thanks for the help."

"I figured I owed you that."

Already he sounded harder than he had before – as if he had second-guessed his gentleness when they spoke, at the moment when he had last held her hand. This only heightened Sydney's curiosity. Vaughn didn't want to make his motives clear, even when those motives were as worthwhile as wanting to defuse a bomb. If he were truly against her, he'd try to convince her otherwise.

"Vaughn, why are you destroying all the components to the Mueller Device?"

He was quiet for a few moments, during which she resolutely studied the many-arched profile of the opera house. If he simply cut the link, there would be nothing to do but accept it.

"You figured that out, huh?"

"Finally, yeah."

"Weiss is in trouble."

Sydney ignored this. "What I can't figure out is why you had to run away from the CIA to do it. You might have noticed that we share an agenda."

"I did what I had to do."

The shortness of this answer grated on her temper, and even through her exhaustion, Sydney could feel the quick heat of anger in her. "What Rambaldi told you to do?"

"Yes."

Whatever charity she had felt toward him before was broken in an instant. "How could you believe in this – insanity? How could you just sign up for being like – like Cuvee and Anna Espinosa and Elena and all those other freaks who have murdered and destroyed to get their way, all for Rambaldi?"

"Sign up?" Vaughn's words were almost a shout, startling Sydney. "Which part of this do you think I like, Sydney? Leaving you? Losing my friends and my career? Accepting that somebody mapped out my whole life before I was ever born, so that every decision I make is completely meaningless? I didn't sign up for anything. I didn't choose this. Sometimes we don't choose what we believe. We just believe. I've had to accept that Rambaldi's right, and I don't like that, Syd. I hate it."

Tears began to blur her vision – the opera house became soft, a white cloud in the night – but Sydney answered him steadily. "You chose to keep secrets from me, Vaughn. That's not Rambaldi. That's you."

"Syd –" Through the link, she heard his heavy sigh. "This is just tearing us both up. There's no point."

"Vaughn –" _Wait, _she thought. _When did Rambaldi map out _Vaughn's _whole life? _

"Whether you ever believe me again or not, I love you, Syd. I always will."

The link went dead. For a long time, Sydney stood alone near the water's edge, listening to nothing but the cries of the gulls.

**

Jack lay with his head pillowed on Olivia's stomach, heartbeat still fast, breathing still shaky. Her hair streamed out across the sheets, as though he'd thrown her down on the bed. Maybe he had. Some of it was a bit blurry.

"Do you see why you should let me make all the plans?" she whispered, teasing.

"That's because you haven't let me make plans for you yet." He kissed her belly, tasting salt against his lips. "You'll have to give me a chance." As Olivia giggled, he murmured, as if absent-mindedly, "But you were – ingenious. All this, and even back at the opera house, knowing Sydney would be there – arranging for Vaughn to show up –"

"He might be dead even now." She gripped Jack's shoulders, as excited as a child at an amusement park. "If he is, consider it a gift – and a sign that our future projects will go just as well."

It was indeed possible that Sydney had killed Vaughn, but Jack doubted it. He said the least of what he believed: "I'm sure Sydney could handle him."

"I knew you wouldn't believe in all that," Olivia said. All what? "Michael likes to imagine himself at the center of every drama, I think. His egotism wrecked my daughter's life, then your daughter's; it would only serve him right if he were proved wrong in the most violent way possible." She sighed. "My theories are considered implausible. But I'll make the truth clear before very long."

Jack propped up on his elbows, confused and concerned. "Wait – proved wrong about what?"

"The Milan Prophecy, of course. Surely you know that. No?" Olivia looked almost insulted. "I may have overestimated you."

"The scratches on my back tell a different story." Her sultry grin told Jack that the joke had done its job and taken Olivia back off her guard. Jack was beginning to realize that he and Olivia had the exact same objective: He had come here to learn about Vaughn's true motives, and she had lured him here just so that she could reveal them. They'd played into Olivia's plans perfectly; only good luck made this success, instead of failure.

He took a calculated risk and added, "The Milan Prophecy – that was the one kept in the Wittenberg vault."

"The original, yes. So you knew about it – just not what was in it." She combed her fingers through Jack's hair. "Typical of Michael, keeping such important information to himself. Putting Sydney in such danger."

Sydney in danger. He could no longer even pretend at nonchalance; Jack seized one of Olivia's wrists in his hand. "What did the prophecy say?"

"Not that I've ever believed it referred to Michael, mind you --" She smiled sweetly, as if giving him a Valentine's Day gift. "But the man at the center of it is the one destined someday to kill Sydney."

Jack stared at her, blank with shock and horror. Olivia patted his shoulder soothingly.

"Hearing about a daughter's death – it's always shocking, I know. But we all die, Jack. We all die."

 

**

At dawn, Sydney waited for her father at the airport; he appeared in his tuxedo, as immaculate as though he really hadn't done anything that night but attend the opera. She was grateful for that. Fontana and Burkett were duly congratulated, their relieved chatter filling the silence that surrounded her and her father.

Jack and Sydney said little to each other until their private jet was in flight; the two younger agents both fell asleep almost instantly, their ability to shrug off jet lag still a work in progress. Sydney changed into jeans and a sweater, barely noticing her father or anything else as she went through the motions of washing her face, brushing her hair. Vaughn surrounded her. The half-answered questions between them whispered in her ear, over and over.

As Jack settled into a seat opposite her on the plane, several feet from the dozing Fontana and Burkett, he said, without preamble, "Did you see Vaughn this evening?"

"Yes."

"Would you have told me if Olivia hadn't?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I wanted some time to think about it." She took a sip of the thin orange juice in her foil cup. "He helped us tonight. I wouldn't have gotten to the bank on time tonight if he hadn't driven me. You were right, Dad. He's trying to destroy the Rambaldi device, not create it."

"I doubt Vaughn will ever allow himself to be in your presence again." Jack's reply startled her, but not as much as what he did next: carefully taking her juice from her, setting it down, then holding both her hands in his own. "I found out what was hidden in the Wittenberg vault – a Rambaldi document called the Milan Prophecy."

Sydney did not attempt to disguise her dismay. "What was it?"

Jack told her. The shock of it made her hands go cold in his, and her stomach clenched into knots. Although she had guessed that Vaughn had found a prophecy about himself – his words earlier that night had led her inescapably to this conclusion – she'd never dreamed that the prophecy proclaimed that Vaughn would be her murderer.

None of Sydney's thoughts would fit together anymore – they were disassociated, far-flung, torments instead of tools. She realized dimly that Vaughn's words earlier finally made sense, but nothing else in the world did.

_Vaughn thinks he's going to kill me. He thinks he can't do anything else. The reason he ran away – the only reason he left me – was because he thought he might postpone the inevitable. Everything he's done, he did to save my life. _

And I'll never see him again.

"Are you all right?" Jack studied her face so intensely that she wanted to turn away.

"I'm fine."

It would have taken a far more gullible man than her father to believe such a lie; Sydney's hands shook, and she felt as though she might throw up, or cry, or both. Jack shifted away from her slightly, allowing her that measure of privacy, but he said, "I realize this is – a shock, but we should examine –"

"I don't really want to talk about it." Tactical analysis was probably a good idea, but not now. "We should just – get some sleep."

Her father was obviously unconvinced, but he didn't press the issue. She was grateful that he allowed her his silence.

Jack fell asleep quickly; she didn't want to linger on the reasons why he was so worn out, but at least it served a purpose. Sydney didn't have to hide her tears when she gave into them, sobbing quietly against the cool plastic window of the plane.

And once she had pulled herself together again, she didn't have to cover up what she was doing as she took out her BlackBerry and sent a coded message that had a very good chance of reaching Julian Sark.

**

**Outside Ekibastuz, Kazakhstan**

 

Sloane watched as one of the heavy metal arches of the Mueller Device was loaded onto the truck; even getting heavy-hauling vehicles to this part of the world was difficult enough. He had attempted to convince Katya to remain in her original headquarters, but without success.

"Irina is dead," she said, "but she might have been tracked here, by either a partner or an enemy. I can't take the risk. Besides, I have secondary facilities not far away."

"You've thought of every contingency." There was no reason Katya might realize this wasn't praise. He would have given much for her to delay just a little longer. Sloane had been counting on Sydney and Jack arriving on the scene soon, led by Irina; he assumed Irina had lived, because at this point in their history it would be very foolish to assume anything else. He would attempt to sabotage Katya's work, to undermine her that way, but Rambaldi's works were wonderfully made – it wouldn't be easy.

So, now he would have to take the risk of sending a communication. If it were detected, he would have done all this for nothing; Katya would kill him and then promptly move again. Given that possibility, perhaps it would be as well to include as much valuable information as possible in the communication. If Sloane were to die for the chance of speaking to Jack and Sydney again, he should be certain to say something worthwhile.

"There's one thing I want to ask you," Sloane said. "About Nadia. If I just know this – maybe it will make it easier to let go."

Katya studied him, obviously trying to read the hidden meanings in his question – but Sloane had not lived this long without learning how to be unreadable. "I would have thought that you'd already let go."

"You don't have children, do you?"

"Me a mother." She seemed unduly amused by this. "Very well. Ask, and I will tell you, if I know."

"When will Nadia die?" He no longer doubted that it was inevitable; this question was merely for his own troubled spirit, and to soften Katya for other interrogations later. "It would help me to prepare."

"Very soon, I fear -- and from an act of love." Pulling out some more of her papers from her pocket, she gestured at a set of equations Sloane had seen in his own work; he'd been unable to interpret them without turning to an specialist, someone at Marshall's level of expertise – and the closed circuit of Sydney's team did not allow for such consultations. "This is her death, so far as I understand it. Her ultimate end. The colcothar. Only fatal if they use the incorrect formula – but they will, won't they?"

Sloane felt almost physically weak. He had kept this secret for the best of reasons; would it now destroy Nadia? "How do you know this will be used?"

"Rambaldi tells us so. I will show you chapter and verse." Katya took one of his hands in hers. "You must not punish yourself. Guilt is such an – irrelevancy, when it comes to Rambaldi's work. We do what we must do, what we have to do. Our choices are not our own. How can we blame ourselves for them?"

He had once spoken like that. This had been his religion, Rambaldi his god. Sloane wished he could reach back through time, snatch at all those wasted, useless years, seize the good things washed overboard like so much flotsam: Emily, his CIA work, his friendship with Jack, Nadia – even now, Nadia's love he desired above all things –

"I used to be able to take comfort in that," Sloane confessed. "The freedom from responsibility Rambaldi gives. But I admit, I don't feel that way any longer."

"Funny, I've always rather liked being free of responsibility. Liberating, don't you think?" A trace of Katya's old impishness played about her smile. Yet he knew her grief for Irina remained powerful.

"When did you turn against Irina? Forgive the personal question."

"You give me no reason to dispense forgiveness, and it's not something I have to give in great quantity. But you're an easy man to talk to, in your way." She took her place in the jeep, and Sloane got in beside her; they sat side to side, leg to leg, warm and companionable. Katya leaned her head upon his shoulder. "I never turned against Irina or Elena, not really. They turned against Rambaldi – Elena by misusing him, and Irina by casting him aside. I always remained in the same place. They were the ones who changed."

Her hair was sleek and smooth to the touch – like her sister's, though this was not something Sloane ever intended to mention. "You never told them your true intentions, though."

"Of course not! I'd scarcely have lived long in this profession, if I went around telling people how I really felt all the time." Katya spoke the truth; Sloane admitted it with a shrug. "I let others do the work for me. Irina collected the artifacts. Elena built the Mueller device. You distributed the necessary drug. I simply made sure that people knew what I needed them to know, when I needed them to know it. Easier than you might think."

Katya had played them all – perfectly, effortlessly, with a smile on her face. She had done all this without a moment's guilt or doubt, and perhaps that was why none of them had ever suspected her. Her victory sprang from the fact that she had believed in Rambaldi more purely than anyone else – which Sloane found both bitterly galling and entirely just.

"Where are we going?" he said, as if purely to distract himself.

"North, to the mountains. Not even a day's journey until world's end. The old world, I mean. Something better awaits us."

"Yes," Sloane replied, squeezing her hand. "That's the only thing that makes it all worthwhile. Nadia, Irina, all the rest."

"I knew you would understand." She smiled, and once again he thought what a beautiful woman she was, and wondered what sort of a person she might have been if Rambaldi had not ruled her life. What sort of person he might have been, too.

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

"It's from Sloane."

"That's a relief." Irina was sitting on Jack's couch, wearing his bathrobe. Sterling slept in her lap, purring in and out. "I was beginning to think him dead."

"I'm surprised you care," Jack said lightly, but he did not deceive her. He wanted to be disabused of the fear that she was truly concerned for Sloane, and Irina was willing to oblige.

"I care very much if our plans are betrayed to my worthless sister. My other worthless sister."

"It's not a very complicated code." Her husband squinted at the message as if it had offended him. He wore his pajamas, and they both had glasses of wine for the evening; it all felt quite homey, at least in a home where communiqués were frequently decoded. "He must not have had much time."

Irina could probably have decoded the message faster, but she let Jack do it without comment. The information was intended for him, and though she felt no particular need for this strange cabal Sydney had formed, she understood that it was important for her daughter to retain what little control she had in the situation.

Besides, she would have to move, and it would be a shame to disturb the cat. Irina had become fond of Sterling despite herself.

She'd made the transfer to Jack's apartment not long before his trip with Sydney to Australia; prior to his departure, he'd provisioned his kitchen with groceries for her so that she would have no need to leave. Once again, Irina had known sanctuary and rest, and she had needed it even more than before. Jack's home was better, because a picture of Sydney sat on the table, and he had known what kinds of coffee and fruit to buy for her, and the sheets smelled ever so faintly of her husband's scent. For a woman who had spent almost three decades constantly on the move, nothing was so luxurious or comforting as familiarity.

After several minutes of analysis, Jack quickly gave an abbreviated explanation of Sloane's motives and choices, the estimated new location of Katya's hideout and a warning. "The colcothar – that's an alchemical phrase, isn't it?"

"Yes, though Rambaldi rarely used alchemical terms to signify their original meaning. Not that any term has a single definition, in alchemy. Why is Sloane warning us against it?"

"He says it could kill Nadia." Her broken hopes for her child stirred once inside her, feebly, before Jack spoke again and she could focus on his words. "Maybe you should tell me what the original term means, so we can at least make an educated guess."

Irina stroked the cat's soft fur, relishing its warmth – its life – while they talked of cold things and death. "It means 'dead earth.' It was what was left in a purifying vessel after the nigredo stage of the opus leading to the Philosopher's Stone."

Jack gave her the blank look of a man who had just heard more alchemy than he wanted to listen to in a lifetime. "Is that the simplest way of putting it?"

No, it wasn't. Quietly, she said, "The colcothar had no more use. Even the alchemists who turned lead into gold could do nothing more with it. It was – dross. Residue. Nothingness."

Maybe that wasn't the name of what Rambaldi originally warned against, Irina thought. Maybe it was a description of what her younger daughter would finally become.

"Listen to me." Jack sat beside her. "We have the warning. That's going to keep Nadia safe."

"Do you really believe that? Or are you fool enough to think I could be comforted with lies?"

She spoke gently, as did he. "I don't put much stock in Rambaldi's 'prophecies.' So what's true to me is a lie to you. I can only tell you what I think."

"It'll do." Futility weighed her down, made her tired. "We can talk to Sydney in the morning. Let's go to bed."

Jack turned down the sheets, and Sterling was summarily evicted from her lap. Though they had not been together at Jack's apartment for long, it already felt as if they'd created a routine – in the most pleasant sense of that word. It was delightful to lie down in a bed she knew, next to Jack, and know the way the lights from the street would shine in the corner, even which bedsprings would creak. She could allow herself the escape of sleep.

Soon this idyll would end – for Jack's safety and her own. Once she was well enough to fend for herself, Irina intended to get out of the country and erase every trace of her presence here. Once she had done that, matters between her and Jack would undoubtedly change once more, though neither she nor anyone else could guess how.

But for now, and for another few days yet, she intended to enjoy even the difficulties of her situation. She felt like a wife again, and the sensation was novel enough to be wholly enjoyable.

As her husband settled beside her, Irina remembered his earlier disquiet when she spoke of Sloane. Perhaps it was time to discuss a few things with Jack – past time, really. At this point, their mutual denial of their connection was merely a formality, one she was ready to be done with.

"You never told me," she began, "what it was like for you. With Olivia Reed."

He went very still. "I didn't think you'd want to discuss it."

"I'm not threatened. Merely curious." And if they were to discuss her affair with Sloane, that conversation might better begin with a reminder of Jack's own minor infidelities. Katya would forever be too painful a subject to broach.

"If you want to know the truth, I thought about you."

Irina laughed, genuinely amused. "You're a liar. A blonde almost a foot shorter than I am?"

"Not like that." In halting words, Jack described his thoughts that night – his curiosity about Irina's experiences the first night they'd made love. Despite her natural jealousy, Irina felt a charge at realizing how much power her memory had held over Jack, even when he was in another woman's arms.

"Do you want to know what I really thought?" She traced her fingers along Jack's bicep. "The first time you were inside me?"

Jack shifted closer; their arousal was mingling now, binding them together, pushing other considerations aside. Irina would still say what she meant to say – but maybe not for a while yet. "Tell me."

"It was a little like you imagined," Irina confessed. "That sense of separation, between the mind and the body. But my mind was so confused. I felt – powerful, because I had you. Sad, because I pitied you. Afraid, because I knew I shouldn't pity you. And that I shouldn't have been enjoying myself as much as I did."

"You certainly seemed to." Jack kissed her shoulder – a question, rather than a move. Irina didn't answer immediately, just let him talk. "I didn't think we'd make it to a hotel, but I would've thought we'd at least manage to get in the car."

She laughed, low and husky. "I've had a soft spot for beaches ever since. And do you know –"

"—the sunburn scar on your shoulder?"

"Still there. You noticed."

"Yeah." Even Jack was laughing now. "We couldn't wear clothes for days."

"That would have been all right if we could've touched!" They'd spent the rest of that weekend slathered in Noxema, lying side by side beneath the white cotton sheets that were the only endurable weight. When they weren't watching old movies on the hotel's black and white TV, Jack had taught her how to play chess without a board, a mental challenge that stimulated them both; it broadcast more of her intelligence than her superiors would have thought wise, but Irina had already known her man better than that.

Jack kissed her shoulder again, then her mouth; Irina opened her lips beneath him, enjoying the taste. He brushed one thumb along the curve of her breast – another question, and one she longed to answer – but they still had more to say. "I'd already begun to like you," she said. "It was years before I loved you – long after we were married – but you were more than a job to me even at the beginning. I hated that, but it was still true. I wanted you to know."

He breathed out slowly. "Why are you sharing this now? You always have a reason, Irina." This was not an insult, merely a sign of the understanding they shared.

"Because I want to tell you why I had an affair with Sloane."

The tension slammed down between them like a wall. Jack's body was as dead as stone against hers. "That's unnecessary."

"That depends on your definition of necessity."

"It's in the past. I'd rather leave it there."

From another man it would have been charity; from Jack it was a way of hiding from his fears. Irina took his face in her hands. "You were going to leave the CIA. At least, I thought you were."

She watched as he struggled toward memories decades in their past. "I meant to. But what has that got to do –"

Realization dawned in his eyes, and Irina nodded. "That's the reason they decided to pull me out. I thought that – if I had another source at the CIA – maybe they would let me stay with you and Sydney."

"Not very likely."

"I was desperate," she said simply.

There were other reasons too; in her panic and despair, Irina had sought distraction in every form available. Jack had never known how much she drank those last three months, or that she ran extra laps at the gym until her legs shook, sometimes until she vomited. Sloane had been one more way of pushing her limits, exhausting herself until she couldn't think or feel enough to be afraid. But that was secondary. In this case, the partial truth was the deepest truth, and Irina had kept secrets long enough and well enough to know her business.

Slowly Jack relaxed, and Irina cradled him close to her. Against her skin, he whispered, "The situation would have been better if your plan had worked."

"What?"

"If it had worked –" He studied her face in the dark. "Even for a year or two -- Sydney would have had her mother longer, and Nadia – it would never have occurred to me to doubt her. That way -- she would've been with me, and no one could have --"

Irina kissed him hard, the answer to every question between them, and all their many mistakes and betrayals were very far away for the rest of the night.

 

**

 

Sydney had loved this restaurant as long as she could remember, and because of that she'd kept coming back. She'd come here with Danny, who loved the signature cocktail and was determined to have it served at their reception; after his death, she'd come here alone to dine with memory, to sip that cocktail and imagine the sweetness in his mouth. She had invited her father here to share their first dinner in more than a decade, and she'd waited here for him in vain. Vaughn had taken her here for her birthday last year, when he'd tattled to the waiters and grinned while they all sang to Sydney as she blushed.

Perhaps it was appropriate that this restaurant should host one more rendezvous.

Just as the waiters brought her steak, rare and bloody the way she liked it, a dark-suited figure appeared in the courtyard, strolling as though he were just passing through. When her eyes met Sark's, he smiled. "Sydney." He stooped to kiss her cheek before he took the seat opposite her. She allowed it. "You cannot imagine my delight at receiving your communiqué."

"I'm sure it was a surprise." She sipped her pinot noir, reveling in the velvety feel against her tongue. All her senses were sharpened: taste, touch, sight. Sark's eyes had never seemed a deeper blue.

He rested one of his hands on the table, not far from her own. A lovely place you've chosen."

"It's a favorite," Sydney replied. "Not that I plan on ever coming here again, after being seen with you."

"We can keep our meetings a secret, for now. Wise of you, really." Sark grinned, almost casual for the first time in their strange acquaintance. He gestured briskly to a waiter, perhaps wanting his own wine. "I'd planned on contacting you, of course. But I meant to give you more time. I see you were even more eager for our reunion than I was."

""It's true," Sydney said blithely as she cut herself another bite of steak. "I couldn't wait another day."

She took her bite, then stabbed the steak knife into his shoulder.

Diners screamed, and the waiters scrambled, and Sark shoved away from her, bleeding and agape. Sydney didn't even stand.

"You knew." Her voice trembled as she spoke. "You knew why Vaughn left, you knew about the Milan Prophecy, and you never told me. You never told me a damn thing."

"Sydney –" Sark staggered backward, then grimaced horribly as he pulled out the blade. She hadn't aimed for anything vital – L.A. cops wouldn't look hard for a crazy woman, but they would for a murderess. "It wasn't mine to tell – Vaughn said –"

"Don't even pretend that you did this out of respect for Vaughn." Sydney stood up, and the few people still on the deck scattered. No doubt 911 had been called many times over; she'd have to get out of here soon. The waiters would remember her as a regular customer, but not once in eight years had Sydney paid for a meal with a credit card that would record her real name. Every once in a while, a lifetime of secrecy paid off. "You don't listen to anyone's rules but your own. Vaughn told you about the prophecy; there's no way you'd ever have believed that he left me, not without a reason that powerful. So you knew. You could have told me. You didn't."

His face was ashen. Even though Sark's life was not in danger, he'd lost enough blood to weaken. "Such temper," he said, without any strength to his voice. "All because of a one-night stand."

"You think I care that we had sex? You think that's important?" Though she already regretted what they'd done, it was irrelevant compared to the sin Sark had committed. "You kept that secret, and because of that, you came that much closer to letting Rambaldi's followers win. I cut you some slack because of Espinosa. Those days are over, Sark."

"You know I was working with Vaughn." He looked almost desperate for a moment – wronged, as though he were a human being who could be wronged, instead of the monster Sydney needed him to be. "Then don't you realize that I'm on your side?"

"You might hate Rambaldi," she admitted. "You might try to destroy the Mueller Device. But as long as you're willing to lie to me and use me, you're not on my side."

Sark half-sat, half-fell in a nearby chair. His face was a cool, distant mask again; his smile was infuriating. "I suppose I shouldn't bother asking for your number, then."

"If you're ever feeling suicidal, I think you know how to reach me. Otherwise, don't bother." Sydney went to the edge of the restaurant's open-air deck, jumped over and took off into the night.

If the police thought to check Sark's fingerprints, he'd have even more trouble to deal with. They wouldn't, though. Victims could walk away more easily. Her own prints weren't on file in any standard law-enforcement database.

_I didn't leave any traces behind,_ Sydney thought – then suddenly remembered Vaughn grinning at her over the edge of his cocktail glass one night. He'd insisted on trying Danny's favorite drink, then proclaimed that the guy apparently had good taste in anything. Vaughn had even let her love Danny without feeling threatened –

No. She wouldn't feel sad about Vaughn. She wouldn't feel nostalgic for the restaurant she'd just left forever. She wouldn't_ feel. _

And yet as she hurried down the sidewalk, tears kept welling in her eyes. Flashes of memory rose, taunting her, making her throat close up: Danny smiling at her beneath the twinkling white lights, Sark pleading that he was on her side, her mother bruised and bloody on the couch, her father both betrayed and betraying in Wittenberg, and Vaughn – a thousand times over, Vaughn --

She made it to her car, then to her apartment before she broke down in tears. The night was nothing but crying; she didn't sleep at all. At dawn, exhausted and miserable, Sydney rose for the trip to her father's house and her family's latest parting.

"You're sure you don't want us to go with you?" Jack said as he steered the car toward the airport. He kept peeking at her mother in the rear-view mirror, as though afraid she might have already vanished. "Either Sydney or I could get you as far as Tokyo without having too much to explain."

"I can manage. I got here, didn't I?" Irina wore a short black bobbed wig that transformed her; that plus the blue jeans, fleece jacket and wire-rimmed glasses made it easy to believe she'd get through security.

According to their shared plans, Irina would begin looking up old sources in an effort to find out where Katya's new hideout might be. Sydney supposed she trusted her mother to do this, as long as it served her purposes as well. The odd lump in her throat every time she realized that this might be the last time she saw her mother – that didn't bear thinking about. Every time she saw Irina Derevko was possibly the last time; there was no point in getting sentimental about it.

And dammit, she was finished with crying.

That resolution was harder to keep when they parked the car – still some distance from the airport, but where the cab they'd called would soon appear. While her father readied the luggage they'd put together for Irina's cover, her mother put her hands on Sydney's shoulders. "It's been good spending time with you," Irina said, smiling softly. Once Sydney had loved that look; she still wanted to love it, and distrusted that desire. "I hope we'll get a chance to talk more soon."

"Right." Sydney nodded, then looked down at the pavement. "Good luck getting out."

When her mother spoke again, her voice was even gentler. "When I was in danger – when I needed someone's help as much as I ever have – there was no one in the world I wanted more than you, Sydney. Not even your father. Just you."

"I know." Sydney met Irina's eyes at last. "Every time Dad and I have seen you for the past few years – no, my whole life – it's been because you needed us for some reason. It's a different story when we need you."

Irina stepped back. She dreaded seeing the pain in her mother's eyes, but the coolness that answered her was even worse. Instead of crying or responding in kind, Irina simply went to Jack, kissed him once, then took her bags and walked to the end of the block. Just as she reached the curb, the taxi pulled up. Visit over.

Jack said nothing to Sydney as they got in the car; this wasn't unusual for him, but his silence had an especially ominous quality. Guilt stirred within her, but she didn't acknowledge it. "You know that everything I said is true."

"Yes. It was true. But none of it was necessary." He words were clipped, his eyes locked on the road ahead as though he could ignore his daughter completely. "If you want to think of everything in terms of tactics, you might consider that broadcasting your emotional vulnerabilities is poor strategy."

It was one of the few things he could have said that stung her. Sydney felt tears pricking at her eyes, again, and for a second she nearly gave into them. In that moment she could have cried out her worst pain to her father, talked about the joy and terror of seeing her mother again, the fear of coming to need her once more, the misery at knowing that she'd misjudged Vaughn, the still-enduring anger at the secrets he'd kept, thus setting them both up for this unimaginable pain –

But the days when she was a sobbing little girl were over. She sat up straight and said nothing the whole trip back to Jack's apartment, even though sometimes she thought he wished she would talk.

 

**North of Ekibastuz, Kazakhstan**

 

"I hate camels," Jack said. His mount, perhaps more fluent in English than might be expected, blinked at him, then gave that rude gargling bleat that only camels could issue.

"They're not exactly my idea of a good time either." Sydney drew her gray robes more tightly around herself, then clucked at her shaggy-haired camel, which obediently began trudging further up the mountain. Jack was able to coax his to follow, swaying from side to side with it, steadying himself between the humps.

Though spring had begun in warmer climates, Kazakhstan was still gripped by cold winds and snow, small sharp flakes that felt like pinpricks against his cheeks. Jack wore heavy brown robes of local make, thick gloves and goggles, but the chill sliced through him anyway. The edges of his daughter's robes flapped in the wind, sharp against the horizon as her camel topped the nearest rise; for a moment she was silhouetted against the faraway mountain range, stark and yet beautiful.

They had traveled here together to scout for Katya's new headquarters. Though Irina was doing her best to reach her contacts, she'd made no progress in the previous two weeks; given the number of Rambaldi artifacts they still could not account for, neither he nor Sydney thought it wise to wait any longer before beginning their own search.

Jack also remained concerned for Sloane, who had given them no further word. This worry was something he had kept private. Sydney would not be sympathetic to it in her current frame of mind, and Jack wasn't that comfortable with the emotion himself.

Remembering Sloane's one communication reminded Jack of an issue he'd meant to raise again. This might not be the best time, but it hardly mattered. As long as they were on camelback, they could use all the distractions they could get.

"I still think we should have told Weiss about the colcothar," he said, pitching his words to carry over the wind.

"He distrusts Sloane." Sydney glanced back over her shoulder at him. Her lips were chapped, her cheeks unnaturally flushed with cold. "If Sloane said not to do something, Weiss might do it just to be perverse."

"Not if we made it clear we were talking about a danger to Nadia. He takes her well-being seriously."

Sydney blinked at him. "I never would've thought you'd notice that."

"I'm silent, Sydney. Not blind."

Just as Sydney opened her mouth to reply, they heard the gunshot.

Sydney's camel shuffled sideways in the snow; his own ride only pricked up its ears. "That wasn't very close," Sydney said, as Jack reached for his binoculars. "It might not have anything to do with us –"

The horizon loomed closer, almost too close for clarity, but as Jack swept his view to the side, he glimpsed sunlight upon a gun barrel. "Get down!"

They hit the ground as one, only seconds before a second gunshot ricocheted of a nearby boulder. Both camels wheezed and bayed as they began running away, moving far faster than they ever had when carrying riders. "Useless." Jack went for his pistol. "This isn't good."

"It could just be a local warlord," Sydney muttered as she took out her own weapon and found cover behind an outcropping of stone. "Territorial reaction."

"Maybe." Jack meant to take no more chances. He quickly tugged at the transmitter at his belt; though he had no time to punch in a complicated message, it took only three strokes to send a distress call. Weiss would get that in Los Angeles – too far away to do anything about it in the short term, but at least he'd know the basic fact: Sydney and Jack were in danger of being caught.

Then a bullet splintered through the plastic, shocking him and ruining even that one chance at communication. Jack swore and ducked closer to the ground.

Snow was cold against his belly and elbows as he made his way forward, hoping to get a clean shot at their assailant. It appeared there was only one, maybe a lone sentry, someone they might have a chance to dispatch easily. No doubt he'd called for help, but if they killed him quickly, found the camels right away, there was still hope. "We should triangulate," he muttered to Sydney, who crouched a few feet away.

"Confirmed. On the count of three." She held out one finger, then two –

"Drop your weapons," said the voice behind them. He and Sydney both turned to see seven armed guards, all training guns on their new captives; they were the real strike force, and the lone figure far away merely a decoy meant to distract them. He'd done far too good a job. They looked at one another, then let the weapons fall.

In fluent Kazakh, which Jack could understand but not speak, Sydney asked, "Who is our captor?"

The head guard smiled and replied in English. "Be glad of heart. Your search is at an end." As other guards circled them and began to bind their wrists, he added, "Monarch awaits you."


	9. Chapter 9

**North of Ekibastuz, Kazakhstan**

 

He would not be sick. He would stop shaking. When he next spoke to Sydney, his voice would be steady, without any trembling. Jack felt that all these things could be willed, given adequate time.

But apparently he'd need more time. He was still shuddering, more from shock than from the cold stones on which he lay.

"I'm going to ask the guards for bandages." Sydney kept prodding along his side; he knew that she meant to help, but he wished she would stop. Every touch felt like forked lightning. "This isn't deep, but it's filthy in here and if it gets infected –"

"Don't talk to the guards," Jack managed to say. "Don't draw attention to yourself."

"I think Katya wants us alive. If so, she might have given the guards basic medical supplies."

Though Jack's eyes were open, he hadn't particularly been looking at anything; he wasn't blinded, but he didn't see. He forced himself to focus on his daughter, whose dirty cheeks were still streaked with tears. "Sydney, I've been through worse. So have you. Just – stay here." That was all he needed.

Sydney nodded; she clenched and then relaxed her hands above his torso, obviously itching to do something – anything – for his injuries. Forced inactivity was sometimes the hardest part of captivity to bear. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should have told her right away. I shouldn't have let this happen."

"It's okay. Everything's all right." Katya hadn't hurt Sydney. That was enough.

"I want to believe that. I just don't know if I can." Sydney swallowed hard, struggling for control in a way he hadn't seen in a very long time. Her vulnerability had always frightened Jack as much as it had moved him – and yet now he was grateful to see it.

At times during the past few months, when she had sealed herself off from her fear and pain, he had thought there might come a time when Sydney would truly understand him completely. Jack was relieved to know that she never would. He repeated, "Everything's all right."

He heard motors again – no, he didn't, no. That was just his memory of the afternoon, when Katya had come. Maybe he was in deeper shock than he'd realized.

"What will she do now?" Sydney was musing out loud, talking to herself as much as to him. Just as well, Jack thought, because he wasn't up to theorizing right now. "She trusts Sloane – believes in him, almost. Why is that? I thought they hardly knew one another."

Jack remembered standing by Sloane's hearth, sharing his whisky. "He said they didn't. If we assume he was telling the truth, then Katya has another reason for believing in him."

"But what's that?"

These were the basics of game theory, as real and fundamental to Jack as breathing in and out. The scenarios were more solid to him than his own perceptions of anything else at the moment, except for pain. "Shared goals, perhaps. She doesn't have to trust him to do what she wants, as long as she believes that his own desire will lead him to the same end."

"He's not a Rambaldi follower anymore," she said, though somewhat hesitantly.

"Either we're wrong about him, or Katya is." Jack heard that distant sound again – not motors, but something – but it seemed curiously unimportant. "Let's hope it's the latter."

Sydney cocked her head. "Do you hear –"

Gunfire exploded outside. Two bullets punched through the door, spraying splinters in every direction; Sydney threw herself over Jack as they heard the impacts against the wall, the screaming of the guards. Though the cuts across his side burned white-hot at the pressure, he knew she meant it as protection and hated that he couldn't be the one protecting her.

_We're being rescued,_ he thought. _Or we're about to die. _ Jack didn't say this out loud; he knew his daughter understood that as clearly as he did.

The gunfire died down, and in the resulting hush he could hear one of the guards groaning terribly – wounded. So the footsteps coming closer were someone else –

Jack's hands tightened around Sydney's shoulders in the split second before the door slammed open. He craned his neck to see – his wife. And Vaughn.

"The cavalry," he murmured.

Jack had spent much of the past seven months deciding just how to get revenge on Michael Vaughn for breaking Sydney's heart. Instead, he'd probably walk out of here with his arm around Vaughn's shoulder. Sometimes Jack wondered why life's ironies continued to surprise him.

"Oh, my God." Sydney didn't move; apparently she was in her own state of shock. "Mom – Vaughn – you're working together?"

They stared at one another for a moment – Vaughn uncertain, Irina resigned. "Just for today," Vaughn said, taking one step toward them, then checked himself. "We need to move. Now."

"Dad's hurt."

"I can travel," Jack insisted, though he wasn't very sure on that point.

Irina's crooked smile both mocked and welcomed him. "We can carry you."

Jack started to argue, propping himself up on one elbow – but then pain lanced through his side again. "That sounds reasonable."

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

"Can you touch your nose with your fingers? Both hands?"

"How is this a useful skill?" Weiss demanded of the doctor. Nadia simply complied, obediently tapping the tip of her nose with both her right and left index fingers. Then she took a step forward, which made every medical person in the room gasp, even louder than they had when she first stood up.

But she was moving toward Weiss, so he figured that had to be a good sign. He could feel the lopsided smile on his face as she said, "I was feeling kind of dizzy at first, but not now." Two more steps – and then she walked, perfectly normally, right up to him and gave him a hug.

_Okay_, Weiss thought as he hugged her back. _We now know for sure that you can't die from happiness, because I'd be a goner. _

"This is unprecedented," one of the doctors said. "To have full brain activity, full motor capability –"

"The coma itself was unprecedented," Mandy pointed out. "I guess we'll never know what it really was."

Nadia stepped back, brushing back her untidy hair. "Where is everyone else? Sydney – my father –"

Weiss was saved from having to begin some really, really long explanations when Director Hayden Chase appeared in the doorway. "I got a page – oh, my God. Agent Santos."

"Apparently I went over my vacation days." Nadia smiled apologetically, her dark eyes twinkling. "Sorry about that."

"What in the hell? Agent Weiss –"

"We undertook private negotiations to obtain a serum that might cure Nad – Agent Santos." Weird: He'd been sure he couldn't fabricate a Jack-style alibi, and yet here one was, right in the palm of his hand. Maybe it came with practice. "Sloane and the Agents Bristow were able to get the serum, but I believe they've been captured by Monarch or an ally."

"And why was I not informed of these negotiations?" Chase folded her arms.

"It was a split-second decision. We had one chance. We took it. It involved some seriously off-the-book conversations – so we thought it was better if the CIA could say they never knew." Weiss wondered if he could write a self-help book or something. _Discovering the Jack Bristow Within. _ He was being silly, knew it and didn't care.

Nadia looked up at Weiss, and he could tell that she realized he wasn't telling the entire truth. Okay by him; he could explain the rest to her later. (Later -- they had a later.) What mattered is whether or not Chase bought it.

It didn't look as though she did. But she slowly said, "If I weren't looking at a miraculously revived Agent Santos right now, I might have to examine that statement more closely. As it is – welcome back, Nadia."

Nodding once, Nadia said, "My father and sister are in trouble; we have to go after them."

"We?" Weiss gaped at her. "WE aren't doing anything. I'm going to Kazakhstan – uh, that's their last known location, by the way – but you're taking it easy."

"We should run tests –"

"You ought to lie back down –"

"Enough!" Nadia held up her hands. "I've been lying down for eight months, so I think I'm done. And what are the tests going to tell you except that I'm all right? Besides –" Her eyes narrowed, reminding him of the razor-sharp intelligence that underlay her every move. "—I'd hate to have to disobey orders and go to Kazakhstan on my own. It's a long flight to take alone."

"Will you please, please, please promise not to do that?" Weiss met her eyes evenly, willing her to listen. "I'll take you home, all right? We'll compromise, get you out of here."

Nadia's slow nod told him that she'd heard both what he said and didn't say. "I do want to go home."

"Glad we got that settled," Chase said, just edgily enough to remind them both whose decision it actually was. "Agent Weiss, I'll okay a strike team. You know the location?"

"I know where they were traveling. We'll have to narrow it down from there."

Chase nodded. "We're going to talk about the correct protocol for negotiation requests when you get back. But for now – get out there, take as many people as you need. And take your girlfriend back to her house. Agent Santos, if you have so much as a hiccup, call the med personnel ASAP." The doctors made various sounds that Weiss read as "dismay," but Chase just gave them her hell-NO-bitch look, which was pretty freakin' impressive as those things went. "You guys didn't know what was going on with her for eight months, so I don't know why you think you'll figure it out now. Let the woman go home."

Eight months ago – it felt like a lifetime – Weiss had packed a bag of clothes for Nadia to wear home. The summertime tank top and Capri pants weren't really ideal for March, so he loaned her his jacket. He hugged Mandy really tightly, then walked out with Nadia by his side.

"It should feel – stranger than it does." Nadia's voice sounded dreamy as they walked through APO's outer hallway. "But I remember being here just two days ago."

"Give it a chance. Once I explain a few things, you'll have more than enough strange to deal with."

Weiss had parked far from APO that day, but he couldn't bring himself to ask Nadia to take her trip home from the hospital in a subway car. So he called a cab as she readied herself to leave. She remained relatively silent until the second they slammed shut the taxi doors. Instantly Nadia whirled toward him. "How am I getting to Kazakhstan?"

"You're gonna ride on the cargo plane with the rest of us." Weiss glanced at the cabbie, who fortunately either didn't seem to speak English or to care what his fares might be yapping about. Although Weiss longed to fight her on this – she didn't belong on combat right now, definitely – he knew better. Even weakened, Nadia would inevitably win this battle; better to help her on her way. "Your credentials are at the house, and nobody on that strike force knows you, so they won't question a thing."

"My boyfriend the genius." She kissed him on the cheek, and for a minute he wondered if it would be okay to just start making out. But then Nadia continued, "Now fill me in. Start at the beginning. How's my father? I remember what he did – it's terrifying – but I know why he did it." She sighed. "And he's still my father."

Weiss took a deep breath. "Actually, kinda got a funny story to tell you about that."

 

**North of Ekibastuz, Kazakhstan**

 

Sloane had thought his modifications to the gyroscope would be enough – but Rambaldi's works were too strong for his mortal hands to destroy. The late-afternoon sunlight was almost completely blocked by the scene he had witnessed in Sevogda: an unholy and unnatural sun, swallowing up the light. Memories of Chinese legend, of dragons and rebirth, flickered in his mind and vanished, replaced only by fear, failure and – no denying it, even after all this time – awe.

"You're sad." Katya leaned against the wall near him, gazing up at her own creation with the same melancholy he knew showed on his own face. "Nadia – Irina – it's been so much to pay. More than I ever wanted."

"But not more than you were willing."

"Will – what is will, in Rambaldi's world? He knew what we would do before we were ever born."

Then Rambaldi would have known that Sloane had managed to slip out a communiqué just an hour ago, one that Jack, Sydney or Weiss had a good chance of intercepting. If so, they would know where to come and how close Rambaldi's plan was to fruition. Could Rambaldi have seen his own undoing? If so, his prophecies remained silent on the question.

"Choices are illusions, Arvin. We do what we are bid." She squeezed his hand, and he returned the gesture; he did not and could not hate Katya for being what he had been just a few years before. "We pay the price we must."

Did he believe that? Sloane supposed that he did, more than not, though he had long since ceased to find Rambaldi's omniscience desirable. But the knowledge that Nadia was dead – by his hand, regardless of what the colcothar had or had not done – cut into him on all sides, the crown of thorns.

_At least I spared you this, Jack. At least you never knew. _Sloane's hard realization about the implications of the Chimera Project – the knowledge that Nadia was not his flesh-and-blood daughter – had wounded him deeply, but his love for her had never altered. Once Sloane had inwardly scoffed when Jack expressed the same thought about Sydney; now he knew better. Perhaps his friend would forgive him his ignorance; in return, Sloane had allowed him to escape this grief. _ You'll mourn Nadia as an agent and a friend, Jack, no more. _

You'll never have to lose a daughter again.

 

**

 

To Sydney's surprise, Irina had taken them only half a mile away, to some nearby caves. "Your father needs to recover." Her mother made this pronouncement as they drove her jeep forward, taking it slow enough that Vaughn could keep up as he led the camels. "Katya won't make her move until tomorrow. That means we can rest for a few hours tonight. We'll make better time afterward than we would if we pressed on like this."

Once they found their shelter, Jack lay down on the cave floor gratefully, as though it were a feather mattress instead of dirt. His injured hand had swelled and turned blue; he could move the fingers, a good sign that there were no breaks, but Katya had known to hit the left hand. If they were going into a fight, he wouldn't be able to fire a gun, at least not with reliable accuracy. Even now – with Vaughn just a few feet away, with her rescue from captivity still brand-new – Sydney remained focused on tactics, assets and liabilities, and how steeply the odds were against them.

As Sydney and her mother worked to bandage her father, Vaughn stood awkwardly at the cave's entrance, serving as lookout, but obviously hyper-conscious of Sydney's presence. She imagined that she could feel him behind her, as though the heat of his body were keeping her warm.

After sipping from a canteen, sitting with his back propped against the cave wall, Jack regained some color in his cheeks, some strength in his bearing. "I can ride farther now. Let's go."

"No, we're not going to go." Irina spoke in the kind-yet-firm tone she'd often used with her daughter. "You couldn't make it another half-mile before you collapsed again. Rest until you can do us some good."

Her father was a terrible patient, which was why Sydney found it so astonishing when he didn't argue. He said, slowly, "There's something you aren't telling us. Something you have to tell us."

Irina didn't look up from her work as she finished smoothing the bandages on Jack's chest. The slight trembling in her hands was almost unnoticeable – and yet, from her powerful mother, as shocking to Sydney as her father's acquiescence.

Jack's voice was softer than Sydney had ever heard it when he asked, "What's wrong?"

"Later." It was clear no other answer would be forthcoming. "Sydney, you and Vaughn should keep guard."

"Mom, I'd rather stay here."

Her mother fixed Sydney in her most steely gaze. "Your father needs one nurse. Our team needs two lookouts." More quietly, she added, "And I think you need to take advantage of your opportunity to talk."

Vaughn's profile was silhouetted against the cave entrance, shadow and sun all at once. He had heard them talking, but was pretending he hadn't; Sydney wondered if he would be relieved or disappointed if she refused to join him.

But Irina was right. She'd gone too long without answers.

Sydney touched her father's good hand, just for a moment, then went to stand by Vaughn's side. Together, wordlessly, they stepped outside the cave into the cold wind. They'd chosen different disguises – she was still wearing her now-dirty Kazakh robes, and Vaughn wore Indian-army fatigues – which made them look like enemies gathered for a peace conference.

He took half a step away from her, not meeting her eyes. "You shouldn't be anywhere near me."

"You're not going to explode like a hand grenade," Sydney snapped.

"I'd feel safer if—"

"We're out on our own with almost no weapons and with the Mueller Device almost built. I don't think 'feeling safe' is on the calendar today."

Vaughn sighed. "Okay. I see your point." Sydney had the impression that, if things had been any less serious, he might have smiled. She might have too.

"I don't know where to begin." Sydney turned her eyes on the sunset-reddened horizon; they were lookouts, and she meant to do her job. "When did you start?"

"Start what?" Vaughn breathed out sharply. "I'm not trying to give you a hard time. But – it's complicated."

Only one thing mattered. "When did you start lying to me?" For so many years, she'd thought he was the only person with whom she could share the truth. If any of that was real – or if none of it was – she needed to know.

Their long shadows on the rocky ground showed Sydney that Vaughn had turned to face her, but she steadfastly kept her eyes ahead on the craggy gray landscape ahead. The silence between them stretched on, broken only by the icy gusts of wind that made her robes flutter and flap.

"From the beginning?" Sydney found herself remembering their trip to Santa Barbara with almost painful vividness; she could even imagine Dylan singing again. _That's the reason we met. _

"No. The beginning –" Basement meetings. Christmas gifts. A not-date to a hockey game. All that magic swirled up in Sydney's memory, as bright and ephemeral as glitter in a snowshaker. "It was all real. And it never felt like lying to you, Syd. I was mostly lying to myself."

A few weeks ago, this would have made Sydney crazed with anger. Now she wanted only to understand. "Then when did Rambaldi's followers find you? Before we ever met?"

"I didn't know that was what they were; I never even heard the name Milo Rambaldi until you said it to me." Vaughn's shadow was staring down at the ground, his profile sharp against the gray-brown gravel that surrounded them. "But early on – just after I started training at the CIA – I started getting messages. Asking me how I was doing, giving me hints about who to listen to, who to ignore. They came from someone who knew all about the agency, and all about my father."

Every time he spoke about his father, Sydney could hear that same longing – an echo that had always called to her, resonant with her separation from both her parents, and yet an emotion that was Vaughn's alone. Sometimes she had thought it was the only feeling he had that was stronger than his love for her.

"I thought the messages came from somebody inside the CIA, an old friend of Dad's who couldn't show his face yet. Who else would have known the things this person knew? I trusted those messages. If this was somebody Dad had trusted – why shouldn't I?" He breathed out heavily. "I was young. It was a long time ago."

Her memories of the nine years she'd spent at SD-6, working for, believing in and even admiring Arvin Sloane at his most criminally insane, told Sydney what Vaughn had been feeling. She couldn't bring herself to say so out loud – but of course he knew. Vaughn understood without her having to tell him. "And that was Monarch."

"Yeah." Vaughn turned away from her, his shadow now looking at some other horizon. "When you walked into the CIA, Monarch said I should take a special interest in your case. I thought that meant that I should look out for you. And after I met you – that was all I ever wanted to do. I didn't know then that I was being set up to kill you."

"Because Rambaldi said you would." She brushed her hair back from her face. "When did it become about Rambaldi?"

"I was the one who asked about Rambaldi first – because of my work with you. It all sounded so crazy, but Rambaldi's work put you in so much danger. I thought if I could just understand it – make some sense of it – sometimes it seemed like the only way I'd ever keep you safe."

She wished she didn't believe that. She hated Vaughn for making her partly to blame, but most of all she hated the fact that he was right. "But you didn't believe – not then."

"Not for years. Not until – well – Lauren."

_You'd think her name wouldn't matter anymore, considering everything else that's happened between us. _Sydney's stomach still clenched; her hands still tightened into fists, just remembering the woman who had done her best to wreck their lives and their love for one another. "You hid the Wittenberg prophecy together."

"It was part of our work."

"Your work. Together." It stung.

"Syd, you'd just died. I thought Rambaldi's followers had killed you. I didn't want anything as much as I wanted to hunt those people down. Lauren – she said she would help – I thought, how many women would do that? Help their boyfriends understand what happened to the girl who came before?" His shadow ran a hand through his hair; Sydney remembered that gesture from countless basement meetings and late-night strategy sessions – it was a sure sign of exhaustion and frustration. "I realized, later on – she 'helped' me find just the right information to make me wonder. To make me believe."

Biting down on her lip, Sydney struggled against tears. "How could you believe in the same – crazy legends and prophecies that have made people torture my sister, torture me?"

"I've never followed Rambaldi." She could sense that Vaughn's anger wasn't for her, but for Katya and Elena and Anna Espinosa, all the others who had gone down that path. "There's a huge difference. A lot of people read this stuff, and they realize that he saw the future, and it makes them go crazy. They get greedy, like if they can just be the ONLY one to see the future, that somehow means that future is all about them."

That was as good a description of Sloane – at least, from before – as Sydney had ever heard. "But you believed."

"Yeah. I did. I do. That doesn't mean I like it. I hate knowing that so much of what we do is pre-ordained. I hate feeling like every choice I make, every time I've tried to love you, is meaningless compared to what I'm going to do. I didn't ever want to believe this, Syd. But think about it. Just think. You found your sister using Rambaldi's directions, didn't you?"

The hourglass had shattered at Sloane's feet as she and Jack stood nearby, and it had directed them. A device that nobody had used in centuries, and it had given them the brainwaves of the sister she'd never met.

"The Telling – that spilled out Nadia's DNA like test results, didn't it?"

Coded as well as anything Marshall's labs could have done. Sydney knew this, because she'd discovered that her father had double-checked the results later. Maybe triple-checked. His well-concealed wish that Nadia would prove to be his own had both moved Sydney deeply and made her jealous – so stupid, being jealous of poor lost Nadia –

"And your face –" Vaughn's voice choked off. "Jesus, Syd, I looked down at that parchment and I saw your face. I should've known then."

"Stop," Sydney said, swallowing hard. The wind sharpened, became even colder, sweeping across the steppes to pierce their clothes and flesh, maybe even the mountain itself. "I get it, okay? I get it."

They were quiet together for a while, and at last Sydney let herself look at him. Just the sight of Vaughn had the power to strike her to the core – and always had, from those early days when he had been the only listener she had. Her safe harbor. Her guardian angel.

Her killer.

She whispered, "If you believed – if you thought you were going to hurt me – why did you ever come back to me?"

"At first, I wasn't going to." Vaughn's face was a mask of grief – for his own choices, perhaps, or maybe just for the fate that held them both fast. "I told myself I was staying with Lauren because I was a good guy – a good husband, you know? To Lauren. What a joke. But down deep, I always thought,_ I can't go back. I can't take the risk. I'd rather live without Sydney than hurt her. _ I didn't want to think the Milan Prophecy could be real."

"Maybe it isn't." Sydney hated the hope in her own voice, but surely there was some way out of this, something Vaughn was just too close to see. "Maybe it's a fake that Lauren planted. Did you ever think of that?"

"I'm the one who found it. I'm the one who translated it."

"Oh." The hope was stillborn. "If you believed that, why did you ever come back to me?"

"When I found out Lauren was lying to me – who and what she really was –" The dark anger that Sydney had almost forgotten Vaughn could possess was in his eyes again, and it chilled her as it never had before. "—I thought, well, it's all a lie. Nothing but lies. I burned our house so all our Rambaldi papers and artifacts would be destroyed. I told myself Rambaldi's prophecies were so much nonsense, and you wanted to believe that so badly – the fact that you hated Rambaldi so much, that you didn't believe in him at all – it was what I needed to hear."

Sydney replayed the earliest days of their reunion in his mind, the black desperation that drove them onward, clinging to each other less like lovers and more like people clinging to lifeboats in a stormy sea. At last she had enough pieces of the puzzle to start fitting them together herself; it was relief and burden, all at once. "Then they started feeding you lies about your father. You wanted to believe in him. And so you started to believe again."

Vaughn nodded, both wary of her understanding and grateful not to be carrying the weight alone any longer. She knew that feeling; she remembered it from the days when she was a double agent, and he was her only listener in the world. "I tried pretending I didn't believe in the Milan Prophecy. But Sevogda – Syd, the Milan Prophecy also talks about red horses, and fallen angels – a sky turned red –" He swallowed hard. "It described that as the beginning of the end, signs that the Chosen One's death was at hand. But it didn't say the Passenger would kill her. It said that the man who loved her would."

_Rambaldi even knew Nadia would die,_ Sydney thought – then pushed the idea away.

"I kept trying to pretend it was someone else who loved you -- but there are other signs too, Syd. Signs that have pointed to me since the day I was born. So the whole time we were there, I kept thinking –_ this can't be happening. _ Then Monarch attacked us after the wreck, told me otherwise. Monarch's a sick and twisted individual – I get that now – but she's never been wrong."

"You knew it was a woman?"

"No. But your mom told me about Katya while we were planning the rescue." He met her eyes evenly for the first time since their conversation had begun. "Syd, she played me. I know she did it, and I hate her for it, and I hate myself even more. But some of what she told me – a lot of it – that was real."

Sydney stepped toward him, half-stumbling, as though she had been pushed. Her anger was gone; without it, she could only face him, trembling and afraid of herself. "Vaughn, you could never kill me. Never. I know that – I pretended I didn't, I tried so hard, but – you couldn't. Don't you know that? Can't you feel it?"

"Would you ever have hurt Nadia?" His face mirrored her devastation, her helplessness and her love. "You loved her as much as anybody in the world. But the fight happened anyway. She's lost anyway. Fate – it finds us."

The tears started to flow freely now, and the only reason Sydney managed to turn back to the horizon was the knowledge that her parents' lives might depend on it.

Always – since almost the beginning – she had felt so drawn to Vaughn. He had started to fill the empty places Danny left behind almost before Sydney even knew it; then her love for him had grown, reaching past even her emotions for Danny (_forgive me_, she thought to him, wherever he was). Vaughn's love had made her whole in a way she hadn't thought possible with a life as fragmented as hers.

And it had all been a trap. Rambaldi's trap, winding them together so that they would create their tragedy, loving each other as a means to her death.

"We'll never be free." She didn't explain what she meant to Vaughn. She knew she didn't have to.

**

**Over Mainland China**

 

"See, the world is so much simpler once you accept that Rambaldi is completely full of crap."

Nadia looked over at Eric – he wore black clothes under Kevlar, which would be belted on tightly when they got closer to the drop site – and shook her head. "Rambaldi sometimes saw the truth. You have to understand that."

"That's where you're wrong." He grinned, as though they were out for a pleasure cruise instead of riding in a CIA-issue plane. In Nadia's opinion, they might as well have been; though she remembered almost none of her long sleep, it felt undeniably good to be awake again. Every movement gave the same sort of animal pleasure as a thorough stretch after a nap. "Rambaldi said you were going to die. Instead, you're alive and well and about ten times more gorgeous than you were to start with, which I would've thought was against the laws of physics or something. Therefore, Rambaldi equals crap."

"If you think that, you're as wrong as the people who believe every word he wrote is the absolute truth." She put her hands on either side of his face; his grin faded, replaced slowly by something more solemn and more true. "People talk to me a lot about Rambaldi, you know. And yet nobody ever asks the opinion of the one person Rambaldi speaks to."

"He said I was going to lose you." Eric closed his hands around her forearms, and it was as close to a lover's embrace as they'd shared since she awakened. "Don't blame me for not believing him."

She shook her head, her ponytail swinging from side to side. "Never, Eric. But it's important that you understand. Rambaldi saw – possibilities. Probabilities. The crises that would arise. But sometimes he saw many versions of the same thing. Sometimes even he didn't know what was real. He wrote down not what would happen; he wrote down what people would believe. That was his foresight – not truth, but faith."

Eric frowned. "You mean – like, he knew that you and Syd would fight, but he didn't know what would happen –"

"Right."

"—and so he wrote down that you were going to die, because he knew Sloane and Elena and everybody would think you were doing to die –"

"Exactly."

"—instead of just telling them he didn't know?"

Nadia shrugged. "It wouldn't have mattered. Rambaldi's prophecies aren't a guide to the future, Eric. They're _warnings. _ He wanted to put people on guard against what his most insane followers would believe and do. His believers think they're written for them, but they're written for the rest of us."

They were silent for a while as Eric took that in. Nadia brushed her thumbs across his cheeks, marveling at how soft her hands were. She'd have to ask about that, sometime.

At last Eric said, "Couldn't he have saved us all a lot of trouble by not writing down anything at ALL?"

"He needed that belief," Nadia said slowly, trying to find the right words to describe the strange, frightening and yet not unwelcome spirit that sometimes moved through her. "Without his followers, his technology could never be built. He didn't regret it. His conscience – it wasn't like yours or mine."

"He had one?"

Shaking her head, Nadia said, "I can't put it into words. People aren't wrong to be afraid of Rambaldi's prophecies. They're just wrong to be ruled by them."

"Excuse me, Agent Weiss." The red-haired woman – was it Fontana? – stepped through the door into their section of the plane. "We just got a coded communication in on one of the frequencies you told us to monitor."

_Sydney. Or Dad, _Nadia thought, envisioning first Arvin Sloane, then Jack Bristow. The frequencies Eric had tagged were, he'd said, the ones Sydney's group were using for secret communications. She was torn between gratitude that at least one of them was still alive and at liberty – and confusion because of Eric's revelations.

"I'll be right back, soon as we find out what they have to say." Eric squeezed her hand reassuringly. He rose and walked toward Fontana, so that he could decode the message; really, Nadia thought, it was amazing what Kevlar did to a man. Sexier than a tux. "Maybe we won't have to fire a shot."

Nadia's optimism didn't extend that far. Maybe it was Rambaldi's potential futures swirling in her head – the sense of dread she'd known in Sevogda – or perhaps it was simple pragmatism. In either case, she knew that a fight lay ahead.

She leaned back against the gray cushions that lined the jet, swaying with the plane's vibration in the wind. To her, it was only yesterday that she had ridden in a plane like this on her way to rescue her mother – convinced that Arvin Sloane was her father and had betrayed her, when in fact he had been true to her all along, and was not her father at all.

Jack Bristow's face was one she remembered in a thousand shades of gray – always reserved, but capable of both vulnerability (a photograph of a baby, a confession of his own mistakes made to give her hope) and deception (his calm approval when she'd killed someone for Irina Derevko's murder.) She knew as much as anyone about his relationship with Sydney, about the enveloping adoration that he could only express through control, and felt both anticipation and concern about being surrounded by that love herself.

But she was no stranger to problematic love from fathers. Because Sloane's love for her –

_Sloane. I cannot call him that. It's too far away. Too cold. _

But what else would be true?

Nadia combed her fingers through her hair and resolved to worry about this later.

"I've got good news and bad news," Eric said as he returned. "Good news – that was Sloane. He's fine, he's in Katya's compound and he sent the directions straight to us."

He's alive. She breathed out, allowing herself to smile while she still could. "Now, tell me the bad."

"He didn't say anything about Syd and Jack. And – the Mueller Device is operational again. She's gonna activate it tonight."

"No, she won't," Nadia said simply. "We'll get there first."

Eric watched her face carefully. "Sloane said he tried to sabotage it. He didn't succeed, but there's a weakness in it – a flaw we might be able to use. So it shouldn't be as difficult to tear it up this time, if he's telling the truth."

"He's telling the truth. Why wouldn't he be?"

The roar of the plane's engines filled the silence between them. Never before had Nadia seen this look in Eric's eyes, a look she recognized from Sydney, Vaughn and Dixon, but never Eric – uncertainty and even pity for her trust in Arvin Sloane. At first, she felt angry; Eric's initial willingness to give Sloane a chance was something that had endeared him to her from the start. But then she reminded herself that she had been asleep a very long time. Much could have passed between them in those months.

"He reviewed the papers that said Jack was your father," Eric said. He didn't shape the words to hurt her; he always offered unpleasant truth simply, without artifice. "And he never told anybody, least of all Jack."

"If he didn't want to let me go, I don't blame him for that." Now it was her turn to reach out and squeeze Eric's hand. "Can you?"

Eric turned his head, unable to either admit or deny the justice of her words. "Why did Elena even do that? I mean, what point was there in making it look like Sloane was your dad? Just meanness? That would be reason enough for the Wicked Witch of Rambaldi, but if she had a plan, I'd like to know what it was."

"So would I," Nadia said, though remembering Sophia's betrayal and true identity depressed her deeply – too much for this day. Shaking off the gloom, she added, "Are you going to tell me why you're so angry at Sloane?"

He didn't answer her, just stroked her fingers as though massaging her hand. For some reason, that touch felt familiar, like something remembered in a dream.

"Nadia – listen, this might not be the time to bring it up, but –"

"But what?"

His smile was somehow sadder than any other expression she'd seen on his face. "I just wanted to make it clear, all of this – you don't owe me, or anything. I wouldn't want you to think that. Or that I was – I don't know – staking a claim on you by looking out for you while you were in the hospital. I did what I wanted to do, and I'm happy, and from now on, I want you to choose what makes you happy. Even if that's not me."

Baffled, Nadia leaned toward him. "Why are you saying all this?"

"Because I care about you. And because watching Syd and Vaughn the last few months – it kinda drove home the importance of leaving nothing unsaid, you know?"

She gathered both his hands between hers and held them to her chest, just where he would feel her heart beating. "I saw the tulips by my bedside," Nadia whispered. "The bag you packed for me –"

"How did you know it was me?"

Sydney wouldn't have put that top with those slacks, but Nadia thought it rude to point this out. "I just know. You would have broken the rules and found the cure for anyone, Eric. But the clothes, the flowers – that's something you do for someone you love."

"Yeah." Eric's cheeks were slightly pink. "But – no pressure. Oh, my God, could I think of a stupider way to have this conversation? Don't answer that."

Love wasn't a word they'd ever used before. Nadia hadn't really thought her relationship with Eric was all that serious; he was fun and funny, a good kisser, and that had been enough to go on. But discovering that a man had sacrificed so much for you, seeing the proof that he loved you even when that love was difficult to give – well, it made a girl think.

"We'll figure it out," Nadia murmured as she nuzzled his cheek. "We have time. Thanks to you."

 

**North of Ekibastuz, Kazakhstan**

 

Irina watched Jack sleep, tracing her finger along his beard-stubbled jaw. He was exhausted enough not to wake at the touch.

Her grief for Nadia was like a terrible sea that raged all around her, threatening to drag her down at any moment. Everything else – even her love for Sydney and Jack, even her determination to stop Katya at all costs – served only as feeble, momentary shelter from that storm. It would be better when they were fighting, when she could lose herself in the heat of the moment.

Afterward, she would break the news to her daughter. Afterward, she could take comfort from her husband. Whatever in her was human – that had to wait until after. Now, she had to focus, to win her battle and protect the family she still had.

She nudged Jack a little more firmly, then again, until finally he stirred. "It's almost dark. Can you move?"

By way of answer, Jack used his good hand to push himself awkwardly into a seated position. His lips pressed together until they were almost white, but then he took a deep breath and relaxed somewhat. "I don't know that I'm going to be much use to you. But I can ride."

"That's enough." It would have to be. "Sydney and Vaughn are outside. They stopped talking some time ago."

Jack resisted her invitation to speak further about the unhappy pair. This was disappointing – a moment's distraction would have been welcome – but not surprising. Every time she spoke Vaughn's name, her husband's face became stonier. He said only, "You should talk to Sydney before the fight, if you can. She feels guilty for being angry with you in Los Angeles."

"Sydney should know better than to waste time with regret."

"She'll concentrate better if the two of you resolve this."

His pragmatism had always been endearing. Sometimes Irina wondered if he would ever have found a wife who could truly love him if he'd been left to sift through sincere young girls who wanted flowers and endearments, instead of being presented with a schemer on his own level. Mostly she was glad he'd never found out.

Irina helped Jack stand. Although he again grimaced in pain, he was steady on his feet, and his grip with his one good hand was strong. When they walked out of the cave, Sydney and Vaughn framed the entrance like carved lions at an Abyssinian temple, equally stoic and unyielding. Vaughn's stare was hollow, one belonging to a man far older than he; this did not concern Irina greatly. Her daughter's red eyes revealed that she had been crying, but her composure was otherwise perfect. Given the circumstances, Irina thought this worthy of a Derevko. "Dad, how are you feeling?"

"I'm fine." Jack made it convincing, at least if nobody looked at his left hand. "We're ready to move, assuming we know where we're moving to."

"We do," Vaughn said, interjecting himself into their conversation. "Katya wouldn't have kept you imprisoned very far from her site. Only one of the potential sites is that close – an abandoned mosque about sixteen miles from here. The camels should be able to cover that in a few hours."

_And so, _Irina thought, _we will fall on them before dawn. In the dead of night, when even Katya sleeps. _

Jack said, "I can ride." When Irina shot him a look, he added, "At least, I can try. We'll make better time if none of the camels have to carry two burdens."

"Stay with him, Vaughn," Irina commanded. Vaughn, not unexpectedly, did not appear pleased with his assignment, but he didn't argue.

As they swayed through the night, the camel's warmth against her legs, back and belly a welcome shield against the sleet-sharp winds, Irina led the way with Sydney, first waiting for her daughter to speak. But as time passed in silence, she finally ventured, "Your father thinks you want to talk to me."

"I'm always surprised when he's perceptive."

"Jack sees almost everything." They were surrounded by darkness now, only shadows against stones in the moonlight; the rhythmic thud of the camel's feet upon the ground was a strangely muted percussion. "He just doesn't reveal much of what he sees."

"I realize that now. But I never forget all those years I thought he didn't see me at all." Sydney's eyes met hers, only for a moment. "I know it's not true, and it's not even fair. That doesn't change what's inside me."

Irina understood what Sydney was trying to say. "Sometimes you need your anger, Sydney. We all do."

Her daughter sighed. "I still wish this had all happened differently."

Katya's betrayal. Jack's infidelity. Sydney's torment. Nadia's death. "So do I. That's why I try to avoid wishing." Abruptly, Sydney pulled on her camel's reins; it snorted with displeasure, but came to a stop, forcing Irina to wheel hers back around. "What is it?"

"It isn't time for sunrise, is it?"

"No, not for hours –" Irina's voice trailed off as she looked at the horizon and saw the pale reddish glow outlining the nearby mountains.

The Mueller Device. Activated, ready, only a few touches away from unleashing devastation.

She felt fear, of course; only a fool wouldn't. Anger, too, at this final and most inexorable proof of Katya's madness. But more than anything else Irina felt a strange sort of relief – come what may, at least her lifelong struggle against Rambaldi's works would soon be at an end.

**

On the ridge of the mountains, they were able to see the Mueller Device – functioning if not yet activated, glowing like a malevolent sun in the predawn dark.

The air was thick with strange charges, the eerie, unearthly sensations Sydney remembered too well from Sevogda. Static electricity prickled along her skin, made her hair cling to the back of her neck. A metallic taste lingered in her mouth, and a low, rumbling hum vibrated beneath them, making the ground beneath her feet seem unsure. All of it together meant fear, destruction, loss and death.

Sydney forced herself to look away from it, to look down at Katya's compound. Her aunt had chosen a centuries-old mosque for her center of operations – one built in the old Russian style, with an onion dome gilded in such brilliant gold that it flickered in the Mueller Device's reflected light. Guards could be seen beneath them, black shapes on black ground, but it didn't look like there were too many.

"Katya would have wanted to keep this a secret as long as possible," Vaughn surmised.

Irina sighed. "She's good at keeping secrets."

Jack took two uncertain steps forward, and Sydney stayed near him, concerned that he might fall. But he was driven by curiosity, not weakness. "She hasn't covered that corner nearly as well as the others."

"Because the terrain's rougher, and it would be almost impossible for anybody to attack that way." She straightened her shoulders. "So we'll be attacking that way."

Her mother nodded in agreement. "You and Vaughn should take the weapons and get down first, stake out a position. Your father and I will bring supplies down, but they're heavy and will take time." Jack looked sideways at Irina – he obviously knew that she was talking around the fact that he was part of her burdens, not her help.

Sydney quickly said, "Dad, while you guys do that, I want you to consider as many attack scenarios as possible. Go through the potentials for Katya's internal setup. Think of the most likely way for us to get at that device, okay?"

"Got it." He already looked happier, in a grim sort of way; though Jack was physically of no use to them now, his mind was as sharp as ever, and Sydney needed him to understand that they still needed his help.

Of course, this plan meant that she was once again alone with Vaughn.

They made their way down the mountainside in near-total silence, so that the guards wouldn't hear them coming. Vaughn stayed ahead of her, finding the handholds on the ice-cold rocks, creating the pathway down for her.

Not quite halfway down, Vaughn skidded slightly on a sharp incline; a few pebbles rattled down from his foot, clattering the entire way down the mountain. Vaughn tensed, and Sydney felt her stomach clench with an almost nauseating force.

_He gave us away,_ Sydney thought – and then her mind supplied, _That's how it happens. He gives us away and I die here –_

She pushed the idea away, but too late: It had cast its shadow over her thoughts, filling her with a deeper fear than the threat of battle ever could.

The pebbles alerted none of Katya's guards; of course, there was no way for them to make the entire descent without knocking loose a few rocks, and the sound would probably be swallowed up by the Mueller Device's hum. But the damage to Sydney's already-frayed nerves was done. Every step Vaughn took – every time his foot slipped for a moment on stone, every time she heard his gun click slightly against the mountainside, she tensed up. This is it, this is it, this is it –

Knowing that Vaughn would cause her death changed everything. His presence was a torment; dread pushed away the trust and confidence she should have felt. Sydney realized, too late, what Vaughn had gone through. He, too, had known this constant fear; if it had defeated him in the end, she couldn't blame him. This was no way to love someone, no way to live.

And no way to prepare for battle. She took a deep breath and focused as they traveled the final few feet to the ground.

Sydney and Vaughn set up their position, got the weapons ready. Looking upward, Sydney would see only the slightest hints of movement in the shadows – her parents, coming toward them. If her father hadn't been injured, Sydney suspected she wouldn't have been able to see them at all.

It would take them a while to make the descent. She had a few moments alone with Vaughn – the last time they'd ever be alone together, sitting side-by-side on cold, rocky ground in the dark. With the guards not so far away, even whispering would be unwise. A poor setting for lovers' farewells, but it was all they had.

Wordlessly, Sydney reached out and brushed one hand across Vaughn's cheek.

He started at the touch – on edge, ready for a fight – but then went very still. In the red-tinted darkness, his face seemed to be made of shadows. She wondered if he could see hers any better, and somehow thought that he could.

Vaughn wrapped his fingers around her wrist – too firmly for a caress, more as though he thought she might slip away if he didn't hold on. For a few heartbeats, they sat there motionless, breathing hard from their journey, unable to speak or to look away.

When she couldn't bear the sadness in his eyes any longer, she kissed him. They did not hold one another – his hand remained clenched around her wrist throughout – but their lips met, once, twice, a dozen times, quick breathless kisses that broke apart every second because they didn't know which moment would be their last.

She felt a single hot tear slip between their cheeks and didn't know if it was his or hers.

A soft scrape above them signaled the end. Sydney and Vaughn pulled away from each other at the same instant; she saw him wipe once, almost angrily, at his cheek, before she turned her face up to see her parents.

Her father was so white from the strain of climbing down that she was afraid for him, but he was alert as he came to Sydney's side. Jack made a few hand motions indicating that the nearby road needed to be kept clear for their escape – hopeful of him, to think of escape – and that their attack needed to center on a nearby, green-painted door.

Sydney nodded, silently thanking him for the strategy that was Jack's only possible contribution. He sighed quietly, obviously frustrated but resigned. Then she looked at her mother, who was already gleaming with anticipation for the fight; the sadness that had enveloped her was temporarily lost in the hunger for battle.

Last, her eyes met Vaughn's – and she almost wished it hadn't happened, because it ripped them both open, all over again, and they couldn't afford it.

Drawing herself together, Sydney focused on the green-painted door as though it were all she had ever wanted in life. For one second, she made it true.

Then she drew her hand right, then left again in a quick slash.

_Go. _

 

**

 

Sloane's dreams were shifting and uncertain – Emily's golden curls wet with rain as she stood in the streets of Sevogda, hands on her pregnant belly as she looked for something lost, something he couldn't quite put a name to for her – and then wakefulness claimed him in an instant.

He replayed the past moments in his head, remembering what he had not been awake to hear: a gunshot.

_They're here at last, _Sloane thought, with no small measure of gratitude. But why was only scattered shooting taking place outside? Where was the CIA strike team? He had felt certain that Sydney and Jack would take his message as a sure sign that it was time to reveal their secrets to APO, and even the agency as a whole. Perhaps he had guessed wrong. Sloane could only hope not; surely he had made enough mistakes for one man, for one lifetime.

"Arvin!" Katya's voice in the hallway was urgent, and he tensed in his bed, wondering if his execution was at hand. But when she ran through the door, dark-blue nightgown falling off one creamy shoulder, her eyes were imploring, not angry. "We've been found."

"I realize that." He leapt from bed, taking up the gun he kept with him, though he had no intention of using it. "How many?"

"Only a handful, but they caught us unaware. My guards at the fortress should have been keeping watch –"

Fortress. Some part of Katya's plans still remained unknown to him, and Sloane felt a shiver of dismay as he wondered what – or whom – might have been guarded there. "I'm with you," he said. If he saw Sydney and Jack among the attackers, then Sloane knew he would betray Katya for them. But if the forces beyond the mosque walls were those of other Rambaldi followers, he would stand by her until the end.

Katya was what he had been, no better and no worse, and Sloane could not condone her – but he could not abandon her.

**

Beneath bloody light, hanging suspended over them all, Sydney ran ahead of Vaughn. She darted from her cover, then hid again, attacking this man with her fists, taking another down with her gun. Vaughn tried to cover her, but every second was a nightmare.

A guard was in his sights, but even as Vaughn tightened his finger on the trigger, Sydney ran in front of him –

He didn't fire, his finger slipping off the trigger at the last moment.

As Vaughn took one breath – a shudder of horror – Sydney ran toward the door, then flung herself against a far wall as bullets riddled the ground near her feet, sending stones and dust ricocheting into the air.

_Who's shooting at her? Where is he? Where? If I don't find him –_

He found a shape in the night, saw the outline of the gun, took the shooter down. Sydney was safe for one more second –

\-- if she could ever be safe with Vaughn nearby.

One simple mistake – maybe that was all it would be, maybe this was what Rambaldi had seen after all –

No. He wouldn't let it be. Not tonight.

He took aim at a guard near the door, black on black, not even a shadow – and fired, bringing him down even as the gun kicked against Vaughn's palm. That allowed Irina and Sydney to run up the steps, to enter the mosque where the Mueller Device's controls were. The sphere above them rotated sluggishly, its surface roiling like lava.

"Vaughn!" Jack shouted; thus far, Jack had been able to do nothing except stay out of the way. "Follow Sydney and Irina!"

"That leaves us exposed out here!"

"We aren't worrying about a tactical retreat."

He was right. Vaughn looked at Jack once – as always, expecting and receiving a flat stare of condemnation, as always vaguely wishing for something else – then took off for the door, sand and rocks slamming up to meet his feet as he went at top speed for the arched doorway.

_Hang on, Syd, _he thought. _ I've got your back. _

**

Sydney's training included cultural sensitivity, not as a nicety but as an essential survival skill; as such, she felt strangely transgressive running through a mosque, her hair uncovered, her booted feet carrying her through the vast center chamber, its Russian-style dome lined with gilded lines from the Koran.

Red light cut through the room in shafts, dissecting her path.

In the corner, movement she could only hear but not see steered her gun, snapping her arm so violently to the right that it almost hurt – the kick, the blast and the wet sound of a body hitting the wall, then the floor. She never saw his face. _The controls, the controls, where are they? _ Sydney knew what she was looking for, remembered it painfully well from the night that Nadia had been taken from them all; that solid black cradle of controls and wiring was nowhere to be found.

"The roof!" Sydney cried in Japanese – a language few of Katya's henchmen would speak, but one her mother and Vaughn would understand. They would follow her, protect her; she trusted in this fact completely, though she had at times wondered if either or both of them wanted her dead.

Amid all her doubt, where had this certainty come from? Sydney didn't know and it didn't matter. Something even stronger and better than her purpose propelled her now, made her powerful, gave her wings. She didn't care whether it was will or destiny.

**

Jack had rarely felt so helpless in his life. The mosque's slender windows afforded him the occasional pop of light, too brief to see anything distinct. Every single shot might have ended Sydney's life, or Irina's.

Was Sloane in there? Was there a way to get a message to him? Jack strained to think o something, anything of use to do – standing watch was inadequate when his daughter's and wife's lives were on the line.

Then, behind him, he heard a motor.

Jack wheeled around to see the transport heading straight toward the mosque at top speed, headlights on. Reinforcements for Katya's troops? Not if Jack could help it.

He used his awkward right hand to feel around in his pack, then drew out a pistol. It felt strange in his grip, but he'd done this once before, on a mission in El Salvador when he'd broken his elbow and lost his backup. Maybe his aim wouldn't be all it should be – but he'd just go for the easy body shot. Could do the head at point-blank range later, after they were wounded.

Angling himself against the rock outcropping that provided his only cover, Jack targeted as best he could. They'd have to get closer before he could do any damage – at this distance, all he'd give them was a warning –

_Two vehicles. Three. Damn. _ Jack cursed his aching, helpless left hand and squinted harder into the dark, willing his targets to become clear.

And then his eyes opened wide.

 

**

The fist smashed into Vaughn's face, so hard he was blinded with the pain, but not so hard that he couldn't lash out in the direction the pain had come from.

Ribs crunched. A man groaned and went down to his knees, which gave Vaughn the opening he needed to take his rifle and bring it down, hard, against the back of the guy's neck.

"Go!" he shouted, urging Sydney on ahead of him. At this point, the best thing he could do would be to remain here at the bottom of the steps, preventing anyone from climbing up after her. She looked back at him once – a glance at the curve of the steps, her face impossibly sure – and then she was no more than footsteps, thudding their way upwards.

A click behind Vaughn made him whirl around, gun at the ready – but the shape that emerged from the darkness surprised him.

"I knew you'd never give it up," Vaughn said. "Not really."

"I can't claim the same omniscience regarding you." Arvin Sloane's smile was as contemptuous as it had ever been. His own pistol was aimed directly at Vaughn's head; a place between Vaughn's eyebrows itched, as if Sloane's gaze were actually tangible. "If I'd ever realized – well, I'd like to say that I would have warned you. But you wouldn't have listened."

_He didn't see Sydney. He won't go after her. Just hold him here. _

"Syd actually believed in you, near the end," Vaughn said. "I didn't share her confidence."

"Sydney's put her faith in far too many of the wrong people." Sloane sounded as though he were agreeing.

How could they both hate each other for the same betrayal?

Though of course Vaughn had never truly betrayed Sydney, not really. Vaughn knew Sloane couldn't say the same. One of them would end up killing the other tonight – the strangest thing about that was that it had never come to this point before.

Gunfire echoed through the distance – from more weapons than Vaughn would've thought the guards possessed. Another attack? He couldn't afford to focus on anything farther away than this room.

Breathing in deeply, his gun still trained on Sloane, Vaughn hoped that the one left standing at the end was the one who wanted to keep Sydney safe.

 

**

 

Irina realized she'd begun pummeling this fool for the fun of it, so she punched him one last time, let him flop to the ground and continued her sweep of the room. The mosque's antechamber was almost bare – the few items within it revealed that it had been used as a fortress rather than a holy site recently, with shell casings and cigarette wrappers in the corners. The universal trash of soldiers --

"Irina." The voice was softer than she'd ever dreamed it would be.

Slowly, Irina turned to see Katya standing in the doorway. Katya held a weapon, but she did not aim it at her sister; instead her expression was almost wondering. "You're alive."

"Sloane lied to you." Irina, seeing no point in sharing her sister's restraint, quickly aimed her gun at Katya. Her long hair stuck to her sweaty cheeks, and she panted through her open mouth. "He's good at that."

"But why?" Katya genuinely didn't seem to understand. She wore a uniform parka over her nightgown; it looked neither threatening nor absurd, instead reminding Irina painfully of their dress-up games as little girls. "I would only have tried to convince you, Irina. Not hurt you. Killing you – it was something I forgave Sloane for, not requested. I had thought he would understand that."

She spoke of Sloane with such confidence, such hope. Irina wondered if Jack was still the only man to share two Derevko sisters, but that line of inquiry would get her nowhere. "You wouldn't have let me go. He made sure I remained free to warn Jack and Sydney."

"Warn them." Shaking her head sadly, Katya seemed to pay no attention to the weapon still pointed at her. "Warn them of what? Of paradise on earth? When did this become a problem for you?"

"When I realized it wasn't paradise. It's prison."

"I've been to prison even more often than you. Trust me, I'd know the difference." Katya was still Katya – laughing, wry – in the face of ultimate devastation. It was both heroism and insanity. "Once upon a time, Irina, you would have been by my side for this. Can you still not see it? All the promise you used to work for?"

Rambaldi's peace – his knowledge – entering into the minds and spirits of every human being on earth. Oh, Irina remembered that dream well; for years, it had been her only comfort in a cold world. But it was the comfort of illusion. She preferred the uneasy peace she'd built for herself the hard way – as would everyone else, given the choice. "You still believe in the old dreams."

"It was you who betrayed our plans, not I." Katya grimaced, her stare distant. The shooting that still surrounded them might have belonged to a movie on a television set; that was how little it seemed to matter to her. "Not like Elena. Never like that. She would have perverted Rambaldi's work to hold the world hostage. Leave it to Elena to see the grandest scheme in all human history, and then use it like a roadway bandit would use his gun."

Irina hated this more than anything – the fact that Katya, in the depths of her betrayal, was still one of the very few who really understood. "Rambaldi's plan isn't much better. I see that. You don't."

Katya shrugged. "No matter. I know what the prophecies say as well as you, Irina. You know that eventually someone will succeed in creating Rambaldi's utopia – and you realize that it will probably be me. Here, now, tonight."

"You don't know that." Irina let her gun fall slightly, just enough that she could focus better on Katya's face. "Being certain about Rambaldi is a good way to be wrong."

"I'm sorry."

Irina felt the impact before she heard it – a diffuse blow, harder than iron, slamming her across her chest and tossing her to the floor. So engrossed had she been in Katya's conversation, so deafened by the multiple gunshots nearby, that she hadn't heard the guard coming up behind her. Mercury-quick, Irina fired upward, killing her attacker – but just as quickly, Katya stood above her, pistol barrel a dark circle above Irina's head.

"You'll awaken to a better world," Katya promised, her dark eyes glimmering with tears. Irina wondered if that meant she would be spared to slavery in Rambaldi's brainwashed peace – or the afterlife. "And we'll live as sisters again."

_Sydney, _she thought to her remaining daughter. _ You're our only chance. _

And then she heard, "_Get away from my mother!_"

Katya and Irina turned as one to the door; the terrible gasp Irina heard could have come from either of them, or both.

Nadia – alive, well and strong – stood in the doorway, ready to fight to save her mother.

Irina felt her hope blaze up like torchlight even as Katya staggered back. Rambaldi had been wrong. The only future left was the one they would create.


	10. Chapter 10

**North of Ekibastuz, Kazakhstan**

 

"You can't be here." Katya stared at Nadia with an expression that went beyond disbelief; Nadia thought she could not have shocked her aunt more if she had walked directly through the wall.

"I am here." She took two steps forward. "And I'm giving you thirty seconds to drop your weapons. Both of you."

From her place on the floor, her mother was blinking away tears – of happiness, maybe. Irina made no move to strike out at her sister, confidence in her rescue that Nadia found more heartening than helpful. Gunshots peppered the air, cut through with the shouts of CIA officers and Katya's henchmen. Somewhere near, Eric was fighting – but Nadia had discipline enough to think of that later.

"You can't be here," Katya repeated. "The colcothar – you should have died. You were going to die."

Nadia wanted to mock her for this absolute faith, but then she realized that Katya's surety went even beyond belief. This was hard, true knowledge that Nadia had defied, but how? And how could Katya have known that the colcothar –

\-- the serum formulated from her DNA –

"The Chimera Project." Nadia leveled her rifle directly at Katya's head. Memories that had undermined her strength before – of reminiscence about her mother, shared through jail-cell bars – no longer held her back. "You used it with Elena, didn't you?"

Katya shook her head, almost sadly. "No. But I knew what she had done."

"What are you two talking about?" Irina was now obviously more annoyed than relieved. Time enough for her to learn the truth later.

Shaking, Nadia bit her lip to steady herself. Now, it was all clear: Elena had modified her genetic code, making it look as though Sloane – the only other viable option – was Nadia's father instead of Jack, so that when the time came for someone to try and save her with the colcothar, they would formulate the serum incorrectly. With a faked version of her DNA, they would have made a serum that killed her, instead of saving her. In so doing, they would have fulfilled Rambaldi's prophecies, just as Elena wanted. Only Marshall's brilliance had saved Nadia's life.

Nadia whispered, "You could have saved me, but you chose not to."

"You could not be saved." Katya was still in a profound state of shock, neither pleased nor disappointed to see her niece alive and well. _Her entire cosmology is destroyed,_ Nadia thought. _ It will take her a few minutes to recover –_

Then she wondered what the hell she was waiting for, swung her rifle around and struck Katya soundly in the temple. The second Nadia began to move, her mother took the guard down to his knees. Katya half-stumbled to the floor, where Irina brought her joined fists down on the back of her neck, hard. Even as Nadia knelt to tie Katya's hands behind her back, her mother embraced her so tightly it hurt.

"I thought you were gone." Irina's powerful voice shook. "Again."

"I'm fine, Mom. I promise." She felt bashful about kissing her own mother's cheek. "Where's Sydney?"

"The roof. The device's controls are there. Let's go."

Nadia shook her head as she finished the elaborate knot that would keep Katya tethered to the heavy table nearby. "You help Eric and his team. I'll go to the roof."

"Nadia?"

As her mother cocked her head, studying her, Nadia said only, "It's what I'm supposed to do."

She had seen this through Rambaldi's eyes – but it was her own instincts that she trusted, no visions, no prophecies. Just herself, and Sydney.

**

"Why did you betray Sydney?" Vaughn remained completely focused on Sloane, over the barrel of his gun. Nearby he could hear more gunfire – a lot more, actually, enough that he was beginning to worry about reinforcements. But if he could just hold them off long enough for Sydney to dismantle the Mueller Device –

(Then what? How could she fight her way past an army? Was this how he was going to do it – failing to protect her --)

"You betrayed her last, Mr. Vaughn. And I think your knife cut the deepest."

"You can stand there and say that with Daniel Hecht's blood on your hands?"

Sloane had the most mirthless smile Vaughn had ever seen. "Curious, that you should mention him. But Sydney's forgiven me for my sins. I doubt she's done the same for yours."

Whatever else that painful conversation in the dust had been last night – it hadn't been forgiveness, of that Vaughn was certain. He knew better than to expect it, or to imagine that he deserved it. But to be lectured to by Sloane –

"Manta, Moray, head left!" That voice – definitely, definitely belonged to Weiss. Vaughn breathed out a sigh of relief, though he couldn't figure out why Sloane was still grinning. Maybe he figured Weiss would fire at his old friend first and ask questions later; that was the kind of friendship Sloane had.

Vaughn shouted, "Weiss! In here!"

"Yes, Mr. Weiss," Sloane called, just as easily. "Do come in."

Weiss backed into the room, Kevlar-wrapped and grim-faced. He took in the scene before him – Vaughn and Sloane both aiming pistols at each other, and shook his head. "First, remember the code names we're all supposed to use? Use them. Second, you might want to stop holding each other hostage, because you're actually both on the SAME SIDE. Third, we're kinda trying to secure this facility, so do you think you could help out? Thanks. Catch you later."

With that, he ran down a nearby hallway, shouting orders to other CIA personnel. Vaughn and Sloane stared at one another – a bit stupidly, Vaughn knew, though that feeling was probably unavoidable. He lowered his gun first; Sloane did the same, though something in the air suggested he still wished he'd fired while he had the chance. Vaughn knew how Sloane felt.

"You follow Weiss." Vaughn backed closer to the stairwell. "I'll guard Sydney."

"I don't think so. You see, I've read the Milan Prophecy too." Sloane came and took his place by Vaughn's side, to serve as the other guard. "Sydney needs more protection than you could ever provide."

Vaughn hated it, but Sloane was right.

As footsteps thudded down the stone hallway on the other side of the room, both he and Sloane wheeled their guns in that direction – but both of them staggered back a step when Nadia (alive, how could she be alive?) ran into the room. "Sydney? Did she come this way?"

"Sweetheart," Sloane breathed, one word like a prayer. Once again, Vaughn knew how Sloane must be feeling, a communion stranger and more stunning than any other. Nadia's survival – despite all Rambaldi's writing, despite every prophecy, every belief – made him feel legless and incapable, both weak with gratitude and bewildered beyond easy comprehension.

"Dad –" Nadia swallowed hard, then demanded, "Later. Let me go to Sydney!"

Silently, Vaughn stepped aside for the Passenger – for the unmaking of Rambaldi's future.

**

Red light bathed and blinded Sydney, but still she kept at her work. She had hoped that the wiring mechanisms of this Mueller Device would be identical to those she had dealt with in Sevogda, but no such luck; Katya had used different colors for the wires, as Sydney's photographic memory quickly informed her. That meant she might as well have been starting from scratch.

_I'll go get Mom. She knows more about these things than anyone. _But even Irina Derevko had not known how to defuse the Mueller Device safely.

_What about Vaughn? Maybe he learned something when he was still working with Monarch. _Surely, if he had, he would have mentioned that while they were planning.

Gunshots continued to ricochet off the sides of the building, and although Sydney was shielded by the mosque's golden dome on one side and the cradle of the Mueller Device on the other, she kept her body low, close to the roof, just in case. This close to the sphere, she could feel a strange vibration, flickering through her, accompanied by the crackle like static electricity upon her skin. Her robes clung to her body as she attempted to map the winding paths of each wire, desperately working to understand the incomprehensible.

"Sydney?"

She glanced over her shoulder, hair blowing past her face in the cold wind, to see Nadia walking toward her. Her first reaction was disbelief. Her second was to grab her gun. "Stand still."

"Sydney, it's me –"

"Prove it." In a world where the Helix program was a reality, Sydney thought, it would take more than wish-fulfillment to get her off her guard.

But Nadia said, "The night I moved in with you, we ordered Chinese food and sat up all night talking, and you sang a song that our mother used to sing to you when you were little. I cried so hard that I spilled my soup, and we tried to laugh while we were cleaning it up, but really, you wanted to cry too."

"Oh, my God. Nadia." But for the nightmarish vision hanging overhead, Sydney would have run to her sister and hugged her until neither of them could breathe. "How did you get here?"

"Eric brought me." Apparently that was all the explanation Sydney was going to receive. "The CIA team is securing the area – we met up with Jack on the way in, he's coordinating." Nadia knelt by Sydney's side, peering intently into mess of wires. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"Afraid not. You?"

"No. But I know who will."

Nadia reached inside her Kevlar jacket and pulled out – to Sydney's further shock – a syringe and a vial of green liquid that looked too familiar. "That stuff – is that –"

"The Rambaldi serum," Nadia said, rolling up her sleeve. "Marshall had to make some in order to manufacture my cure. I suspected we might need it, so I convinced Eric to give it to me."

"Need it? Nadia, this serum tortures you!" No sooner had Sydney said it than realization came washing in. "And -- it connects you to Rambaldi."

Nodding, Nadia plunged the needle through the lid of the vial, slowly drawing up the eerie green liquid. "We don't know how to undo this. Rambaldi will. His followers have pretended to serve his will long enough, Sydney; it's time he served us, don't you think?"

"Are you sure he WANTS this undone?" Sydney felt quite sure that she'd battled her sister for the last time, possessions or no.

Nadia said simply, "I have an instinct about this."

Sydney remembered another time she'd heard those words and bit her lip. Could she trust that instinct again? Had she been right to trust it the first time?

"Give me the needle." When Nadia put it into Sydney's hands, she quickly pushed out any air with a quick squirt of green, then gripped the arm her sister obligingly held out. "I won't say goodbye to you again."

"You won't have to."

"Okay," Sydney answered, trying to believe it.

Then she slipped the needle beneath the skin, jammed down the plunger and watched her sister's eyes change into someone else's.

It wasn't a physical change – Nadia still looked like Nadia – but another person stared at Sydney now, though with shadows of the same understanding and love. Nadia's voice whispered, "Sydney." It was recognition, homage and apology, all at once, and Sydney wasn't sure whether to cry or turn away.

She managed to say, "Turn this off."

Laughter, which drowned out the gunfire and the device's hum and even the hammering of Sydney's own desperate heartbeat in her chest. "I always planned to."

And then Nadia's hands began to work, darting in and out of the wires like a craftswoman with a loom, threading back and forth so deftly that Sydney expected to see a pattern spin forth. The pitch of the vibrations changed, going higher, then lower, then lower again so that the surface of the Mueller Device began to ripple like a stormy sea.

_It's gonna blow, _Sydney thought. _Thank God we're out in the open for once, on high ground, so the water has someplace to go. _

Nadia's fingers cradled her face, startling Sydney, but she couldn't look away from the old, wise gaze that held her fast. The voice said, "I cannot change your burdens."

It was both reprimand and understanding when Sydney answered, "I never expected you to."

A shiver in the air, a fine mist – and then Sydney gasped and grabbed Nadia's body as tightly as she could just before the water hit them, as cold as the ocean and as hard as a wall. There was no more up, no more down, no more air; she just tumbled over and over, striking hard surfaces that might have been debris or the roof or the ground or anything else, caught in the current. The undertow tugged at Nadia's body, hard, but Sydney held on with all her considerable strength. She had been parted from her sister once, but never again.

**

Irina staggered through hip-deep water, the currents still strong enough to threaten to drag her off her feet. Drips and small streams flowed through the beams of the roof, much as though it were raining indoors. Pages from books and stubs of candles floated past. The agents who had never been near a deactivated Mueller Device before – in other words, most of them – were completely disoriented, shouting to one another and out of control.

That gave Irina the chance she needed to get the hell out of here.

Her boots made her legs heavy, and her soaked hair seemed to weigh twenty pounds. But it was regret slowing Irina's movements; she wanted to hold Nadia again, to spend more time with Sydney, to kiss Jack goodbye. However, the price of doing all those things right now was returning to CIA custody, an experience Irina felt she had enjoyed quite enough for one lifetime.

She could rendezvous with her family later. Their ingenuity during the previous months was more than enough for them all to know they could find a way eventually. So Irina knew it wasn't important to be with them this morning – even if she felt otherwise.

Water on either side of the heavy doors made them impossible to open, but Irina was able to hoist herself through one of the windows, landing with a splash. The wet sand was even more difficult to get through than the hallway had been, but at least the water only came up to her knees. In the distance, she saw one of the camels splashing through a makeshift tidepool, bellowing angrily at this change in circumstance. Irina kept moving, resolutely not looking back.

If anyone saw her go, it was someone willing to let her go. She made her way through the slush into the mountainside; her wet clothes were clammy and cold, dangerously so given the chill, but she was only a few hours' hike from a stash of emergency supplies they'd dropped off en route. Once she'd changed, perhaps taken a brief nap, Irina would be good as new. Back in the game. On her own.

As Irina walked, she took the comm unit from her pocket, clipped it back to her ear and listened for a while on the old Derevko frequency. Silence for the better part of a half-hour, during which sunrise began, warming her along with the hike – and then she heard, "Another clean getaway."

Irina smiled at the sound of Jack's voice. "They're a specialty of mine."

"So I'd noticed."

"Sydney, Nadia – they're all right?"

"Absolutely fine. Nadia used the Rambaldi serum to find out how to deactivate the Mueller Device, but she's shaken off the effects. She seems – it's as if nothing ever happened."

The mention of the serum gave Irina chills, though certainly her wet clothes weren't helping. "Are they searching for me?"

"Not in any structured way. A few of the younger agents – the ones who haven't dealt with you before – think you might have drowned and been washed down the mountainside." Although she was making her way down a muddy, gravel-strewn path, Irina could see only the wry half-smile she knew was on Jack's face. "If you're declared legally dead again, I think that may set a new record."

"I'll have to lay low for a while." No more rendezvous in Paris, no more nights playing with the cat at Jack's apartment in Los Angeles – no more evenings spent in the Rome apartment, the stone angel watching over them as they slept. "We may not see each other again for months. Longer, maybe."

"I know," he said, and something in it told her that Jack had shared in her mistake: After their unlikely reunion during Elena's endgame, they had overcome so many obstacles that, for a while, it had been tempting to believe they'd conquered them all. Reality had different demands. They could both accept it – they were experts in unpleasant truths – but that made this parting all the harder.

Irina found the path she wanted, the one that would lead her to her supplies, rest and safety. Only a few trickles of water had made it down this way, and with the sky bright and clear, it felt almost as though none of Katya's works had ever come to pass. "If you need me, Jack, you know how to call."

"And you." Then she heard something – another voice? She froze, one hand on a mossy bit of rock, worried that Jack had been caught speaking to his fugitive wife and in so doing incriminated himself. But instead he said, "It's Nadia. We're alone. She wants to talk to you –"

"Both of you," Nadia said, her voice becoming clearer as Jack handed off his comm. "Stay, Jack, please. The two of you should hear this together."

She sounded so good, so strong. Although Irina still did not understand the twist of Rambaldi's prophecies that allowed her younger daughter to still be alive, she understood health and vitality when she heard it. "What news, sweetheart?" Perhaps she and Agent Weiss were to be married. But why should Jack care about that?

And then Nadia explained how she had come to learn that Jack was her father.

I knew it. Irina had known no such thing, but she'd wanted it so badly that it felt like knowing. She sank down to the ground, half-kneeling, bracing herself against the earth as she smiled. Through the comm she could hear no words, and Irina almost laughed out loud from the knowledge of just how Jack's face looked when he was this completely stupefied.

"I'm very happy," she managed to say at last. "I think you must be too."

"It's confusing." The choked quality of Nadia's voice reminded Irina that – incomprehensible though it seemed to her – Nadia had always been fond of Sloane. Perhaps that would pass in time. "But – we'll figure it out, won't we?"

"Right," said Jack's distant voice. Yes, stupefied was the word.

Irina brushed her half-dry hair away from her face; the sun was well above the horizon now, making the sky bright. "Nadia, someday I hope I can make you understand what this means to me."

"Someday," Nadia agreed. "I want to understand everything. We'll find the time; I don't know where or how – but we will."

"Tell your sister goodbye," Irina said. "And let me speak to – to your father before I go."

Another brief rustling of the comm unit, and then Jack said, simply, "I love you."

Really, what else was there to say? "I love you too." Irina shut off the link and continued on her way. Her past seemed to be healing behind her, stitching itself up, becoming whole.

**

Jack took the comm unit from his ear, staring at Nadia as if he had never seen her before. Perhaps he hadn't. He'd never been able to detect anything of Sloane in her – he had looked, jealously, for some mingling of Irina's face with Arvin's – but that didn't mean he'd glimpsed anything of himself either. Nadia seemed to have leaped from her mother's forehead fully formed, like Athena; surely if any race of women could reproduce in this way, the Derevko sisters would.

"I feel as if I should have guessed," Nadia began. Her damp hair was pulled back from her face in a makeshift knot, her freckles visible across her nose. "It's stupid, thinking that we ought to have known – but I can't help it."

"Neither can I."

"Are you all right?" She said it as though he had been in an accident, not discovered he had another daughter.

"I'm fine." This was exaggeration; his side and his left hand both still hurt terribly, and a bit of flotsam had caught him across the cheek during the flood, bruising the side of his face. But learning about Nadia was a shock of a different kind, one Jack was far more willing to bear. He was aware of various cross-currents of feeling: simple fatherly pride, much as he'd known when Laura first told him she was pregnant with Sydney; pure possessive vindication, the retaliation he'd wanted since he'd learned of Sloane's affair with his wife; and the terrible weight of responsibility, the knowledge that there was one more person in the world whose safety and happiness depended upon him.

But the pride was strongest, and he thought something better would follow, given time.

Jack touched Nadia on the shoulder with his good hand, uncertain about offering an embrace and hoping she would not either. She didn't, but she covered his hand with hers – a brief, almost awkward gesture. "After we get back to Los Angeles, let's get dinner," she offered. "Or drinks. Just you and me."

"I'd like that," he said. It felt like such a small beginning, and yet there was no other place to start.

**

Most of the agents were loaded onto a slower cargo plane for the trip to Tokyo, where they would refuel and rest before making it the rest of the way to Los Angeles. Space on the supersonic jet was reserved for senior agents – and for prisoners. Vaughn had been incapacitated by the impact of the water from the Mueller Device, then come to himself in a room filled with CIA agents who knew better than to let him get away. Weiss had worn a strange expression when he ordered Vaughn put in handcuffs, but what else could he have done?

Vaughn had seen Sydney only once, as the agents frog-marched him to the plane. She'd been soaking wet, wringing out the hem of her gray robe as she spoke to Weiss; when their eyes met, she had gone very still, and Vaughn had wished that he could bring himself to smile. At least it would have been some kind of farewell.

But any chance of smiling had vanished when he'd seen his fellow prisoner.

"I cannot comprehend it," Katya said to him as the plane climbed to cruising altitude. They were each handcuffed, on opposite sides of a small chamber in the lower compartment of the plane. Six guards lined the room, which was either a compliment or overkill. "Nadia's survival – it's nowhere in the texts. Not even a hint, or an ambiguity."

"There's no ambiguity about my killing Sydney, either," Vaughn said. "Did you fake that? You faked a lot of things."

Katya gave him a dimpled smile that was almost maternal. "I told you the truth, whether or not you like to hear it."

"Was it true that Nadia was going to die?" he demanded.

"Was it true that The Telling was programmed with her DNA – not her true DNA, but the exact match of the alterations – hundreds of years before she was born?" Katya shrugged and leaned back against the wall of the aircraft. "Rambaldi's words are truth. Our interpretations -- well, they vary. But someday, someone will create Rambaldi's peace through the Mueller Device. Someone the CIA will not know, and will not stop."

Either she was speaking with the terrifying surety of the zealot, or she was just reporting pure fact. Neither alternative made Vaughn very comfortable. "I don't know what to think anymore." It felt strange confessing this to Katya Derevko, but whom else could he tell?

"You don't have to know what to think," she replied. "That's the glory of it, and the horror, too. Fate tells you what to think, eventually."

She had no morality, no regrets, no curiosity. Without free will – and Katya Derevko genuinely believed she possessed none – there was no culpability. No identity at all.

Which was about right, Vaughn decided. He'd never felt further from himself, or from knowing who he was or what he wanted.

Quietly, he said, "Why did you come for me? All those years ago?"

"I meant to help you. I was always so terribly fond of your father, you know. And you struck me as a young man who might go far."

Vaughn stared down at the handcuffs around his wrists. "Your fortune-telling could use a tune-up."

**

**over the South Pacific**

 

Weiss had fallen asleep on one of the plane's leather benches; Sydney lay on the opposite side of the cabin from him, equally still, though Sloane suspected she could not sleep. Jack and Nadia were both in the front cabin, being checked out by the med team. Sloane remained by himself near the door to that front cabin, uncertain whether he wanted to talk to Jack or Nadia first. They knew the truth – he realized that the first moment he saw father and daughter walking through the muddy courtyard of the mosque, side by side – but they would each have something to say to him, before the end.

Let them speak. Their reactions could not hurt him as much as the knowledge did.

At least he wasn't trapped in the lower cabin with Katya and Vaughn. It could easily have come out differently; Sloane still found it difficult to believe that Weiss had covered for him as well, and that his reasons had been believed and accepted by all. He was out of the habit of being trusted.

Finally, the door to the front cabin slid open, and Jack walked out, a splint on his left hand and a butterfly bandage across his cheekbone. He looked to Sydney first, who didn't budge, not even turning her head; either she was asleep or could not hear. Sloane expected Jack to go to her, perhaps to discuss the new family unit. Instead, Jack sat by his side, and they remained for a while in a silence less uneasy than Sloane would have thought.

He had expected Jack to speak first. When it became clear that this would not happen, Sloane had to struggle to find his words. "I don't expect you to believe my reasons for secrecy, Jack, at least not immediately, but hear me out."

"I suspect that you thought Nadia was lost no matter what we did, and you saw everything as – simpler, this way." At Sloane's surprised stare, Jack actually smiled. "Not all of your motives are inscrutable, Arvin. Just most of them."

"If I'd realized that the DNA link could save Nadia instead of hurting her –" Sloane swallowed hard. "I shudder to think how deeply I endangered her, by keeping this secret. If I had realized that I could save her, I would have told you. No matter what else I lost."

Jack studied him, the same searching gaze Sloane knew so well. "I've doubted your motives in the past – with good reason, I might add. But I would never doubt a man's love for his daughter." His gaze drifted toward Sydney, whose dark hair fanned out around her on the leather bench. "I know what it means to keep those secrets. We don't have to discuss it further."

For Jack, who loathed most emotional conversations, offering silence was the same as offering a gift. Sloane took it as it was intended. "Thank you. How is – she?" Nadia's name stuck in his throat.

"Fine." The new softness in Jack when he thought about Nadia was almost painful for Sloane to see. But that pain changed and sharpened when Jack added, "She'd like to talk to you."

"Someday. Not yet."

"Today. She said so." When Sloane hesitated, Jack sighed. "I'm only delivering a message. Do what you want with it."

He dreaded this severance more than virtually any other confrontation in his life – but where could he hide, on a plane? Nadia's determination had brought her back from the very brink of death; simple denial would do him no good against her.

So Sloane went into the next compartment, where med techs surrounded Nadia. She had changed into dry clothes and sat on a bench, tolerantly allowing her blood pressure to be checked. To his astonishment, she brightened when he came near. "They're giving me the works," she muttered around the thermometer in the corner of her mouth. "Apparently they think I could go back into a coma if I get wet." The med tech gave her a dirty look as he took the thermometer back.

"Sweetheart –" The endearment slipped out; Nadia didn't object, and Sloane decided to cherish it as the last time. "It's so good to see you well."

"It's good to be well. Eric took such wonderful care of me."

Sloane remembered his last meeting with Mr. Weiss with considerable discomfort. "His faith shames us all."

"Eric's every bit as bullheaded as the rest of you," she said, shaking her head. "He just happened to be right this time."

"The only time that ever really mattered."

Nadia turned to the med techs. "Could you leave us? Just for a few minutes?" They inched away slowly, as if convinced that their patient might collapse behind them at any second. But within a minute they were alone, the humming of the plane's engines filling the silence between them, the rosy clouds outside illuminating her face with the glow he hadn't seen in far too long.

"You know the truth." He held both her hands, determined to make the best of this leavetaking. "I'm sorry that I kept it from others, and I just want you to understand – Nadia, I would never have kept it from you."

"I know that. I do." She said that last as though he had contradicted her.

"Jack's a good man. I'm sure you realize that. He doesn't show affection easily – he never did -- but you'll never need to doubt his devotion to you."

Nadia cocked her head. "You say all this like we're never going to speak again. Like you're not going to be a part of my life anymore." Her fingers tightened around his. "Dad –"

"Don't." Just hearing that name hurt – and yet she'd said it, hadn't she?

"What, am I supposed to stop loving you now? I didn't." Her dark eyes were glistening with tears now. "Did you stop loving me?"

Sloane felt as though something inside his chest was tearing. "Nadia, no. I never could."

"Then nothing changes between us." Nadia managed to smile, despite the way her lips trembled. "Jack – he deserves to be a part of my life. He shouldn't have that taken away from him because of Sophia's tricks. But that doesn't mean we have to lose each other."

He embraced her, his eyes clenched shut, thankful for the greatness of her heart. But she was young, and she did not know how these things inevitably unfolded. He envied her that ignorance, holding onto her for as long as he could, aware if she was not that this would be the last time.

**

**Los Angeles, California**

 

"We have to stop meeting like this." Katya smiled up at Jack, as merry to walk back into prison as she had been to leave it.

He accompanied her through the corridor again, just as he had when she'd been released eight months before; they'd simply reversed directions. "I doubt we'll meet again, in prison or anywhere else."

"You sound awfully certain," she said, strolling back into her cell with a nod to the jailer, as if he were a waiter showing her to her table at a five-star restaurant. "Are you the one with the prophecies now, perhaps?"

Jack squinted at her through the bars as the door slammed shut; he'd rarely enjoyed the sound of metal on metal so much. "I don't need a crystal ball for this."

"If it's written that we'll meet again, then we will." Katya reclined back on her bed; he wondered for a minute if she were honestly relieved to be there, if the burdens of Rambaldi's future troubled her more than she admitted. It was only a passing curiosity. Jack did not care to worry about it for long. "And if you think that Rambaldi's works don't touch upon your wife or children further – well. You'll learn, in time."

"It doesn't matter that you betrayed me," Jack said. "There was nothing between us to betray. But Irina – Sydney and Nadia – they deserved better."

Katya became serious at last. "I love them all more than you will ever know. I made decisions for them, based on what I knew to be the case and what I believed would come to pass. I had no time to discuss matters in committee; I did my best to fulfill my purpose. Are we so different, you and I?"

"I hope our family would say yes." Jack left before Katya could bait him any further; she was too good at it. A Derevko specialty, perhaps. The thought made him smile as he walked out the door.

**

Sydney wondered when CIA headquarters – the office she'd thought of as the real CIA for years – began feeling strange to her.

She paced the hallway, catching glimpses of her reflection against glass panes in some of the doors: hair slicked back into a tidy ponytail at the nape of her neck, conservative blue suit, glasses. Funny how she could masquerade as a Bedouin or a geisha or a surf bunny with ease, but feel awkward when she tried to present herself just as what she was. That feeling was new, too.

"Sydney." She turned to see Sloane strolling toward her, more at home than she was – despite the fact that he'd been on most-wanted lists here for more than a decade. Maybe discomfort was a sign of authenticity. "I've given my testimony. They'll begin Vaughn's final hearing in just a few minutes."

"Okay." Breathe in, breathe out. Although it was odd, letting Sloane see her vulnerability, Sydney could think of no reason to hide it from him; besides, she thought it might be wiser to save her emotional reserves for later.

"I'm glad we ran into each other. I wanted to tell you first, Sydney, and I hope you'll keep this information to yourself for a while yet. I've given my resignation." His eyes crinkled in a smile Sydney could tell was hard-fought. "Although I've valued these past two years, working with you and Jack honestly at last – more than I could ever say – the time has come for me to move on."

"Move on?" Sydney couldn't tell what surprised her most: the fact that Sloane was leaving or the fact that she didn't want him to go. "Where?"

"Doesn't have to be anywhere in particular. Perhaps I'll move back to Italy. Catch up on my reading." He shrugged, as though his own future was irrelevant to him. "You're welcome to visit anytime."

She wouldn't go, of course, and he knew it. But the invitation wasn't a mere formality; it was Sloane's way of affirming that the worst breach between them had, at least to some degree, healed. What kind of goodbye could possibly answer? He was studying her, curious in his distant way, probably as uncertain as she was. Sydney took a deep breath. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

The way he looked at her then reminded her of the beginning, when she'd first joined SD-6, and Sloane seemed to be the only person in the world who approved of her. That felt like another lifetime. "Thank you, Sydney." Then he was businesslike again. "Anything you need to know about the hearing? I don't know much, but –"

"What's it like in there?"

"Standard setup, I'd say. They didn't interview you?"

"I gave a written statement. Given my relationship with Vaughn, everyone agreed that might be more 'objective.'"

Sloane steepled his hands, considering. "They distrust you." At her glare, he amended that. "Not the way they distrust me. But they're refusing to rely on your judgment."

Sydney leaned against the cinderblock wall, folding her arms across her chest. Faraway she could hear fingers tapping on keyboards, the gurgle of a water cooler, human laughter: office sounds she found comforting, perhaps because she associated them with safety, not work. "The thing is, I can't tell whether they think I'd make excuses for Vaughn or whether I'd be the first one shouting for them to lock Vaughn up and throw away the key."

"Do you know what you'd do? I'd say that's the only opinion that matters."

She sighed, letting her head loll to one side. "Yeah. I know."

"Then to hell with objectivity." When she stared at him, Sloane spread his hands. "I've never found it particularly useful, myself. Don't waste energy trying to defeat their expectations."

"Arvin Sloane is telling me that honesty is the best policy." The smile that tugged at her lips was half disbelief. "Now I know I'm in the Twilight Zone."

Undaunted, Sloane continued, "Neither honesty nor deceit is as important as attaining your objective. I'm suggesting you do that in the best way possible. That's all."

She considered that, turned it over and considered it once more in a new light. "Thanks," Sydney murmured, walking away from Sloane without any other farewell. He'd understand. What was most important was getting to Vaughn's hearing, now.

**

The room for the final hearing wasn't crowded; a handful of agents, most of them unknown to Sydney, none of them familiar. Her family and coworkers had all been interviewed before and were absent now, probably by order. She realized the only reason she hadn't been given an order was because they'd thought it unnecessary. At the center of the table in front of the room sat Director Hayden Chase and Marcus Dixon – each of them surprised.

"Syd." Dixon half-rose. "Didn't expect to see you here."

Chase raised one elegant eyebrow. "You sure this is where you want to be?"

"Positive." Sydney closed her hand over Dixon's, determined to heal the one breach she could. "So, you're talking to me again."

"The next time you go off-book –" He was obviously about to say, "let me know," but Chase's sideways glanced silenced him. "Maybe there shouldn't be a next time."

"I left you out of this because I love you," she replied. "Because there were compromises you shouldn't have to make."

"You got backed into a corner, Agent Bristow." Chase folded her hands as she turned toward the door. "Now we're going to deal with the person who put you there."

Taking a deep breath, Sydney looked over her shoulder to see Vaughn being led in, guards on either side, handcuffs on his wrists. He breathed in sharply but said nothing to her; they hadn't spoken since before the attack on the mosque. In the plane, she'd had no chance; since then, he'd been in jail.

"Everyone be seated." As Chase gestured the guards to put Vaughn in place, Sydney backed into a chair at the corner of the room. Her palms were warm and moist, her breath quick. "Agent Vaughn, we've been over the basics. The testimony we've received indicates that you haven't been guilty of treason – but that doesn't explain the dereliction of duty, interference with agency operations, failure to report essential data – well, the list goes on." She tapped her fingers on the folders ahead of her. "Any final statement in your defense?"

Vaughn rose to his feet, steadier than Sydney knew she was herself. That made sense; it had always been easier for her to be in danger than to see someone she loved in trouble. "I acted in what I believed were the best interests of our national security, the agency and the agents with whom I worked. I made errors in judgment, but given the information I had – the risks I was confronting –" His hesitation was for Sydney, so that she could fill in the words he wouldn't say. She remembered hearing the Milan Prophecy for the first time as she and her father flew away from Australia. "—I couldn't have done anything else."

"We'll be the judge of that." Slipping on her dark-rimmed glasses, Chase drew out the papers she'd prepared. "Matthias Diestler, a.k.a Michael C. Vaughn, we hereby –"

"Wait." Sydney stood up – not beside Vaughn, but near enough. How was it that you could actually hear heads turning? "I have something to say."

Chase folded her hands. "We have your written testimony, Agent Bristow."

"That's right. You have my testimony about what happened while Agent Vaughn was rogue. What you don't have is a statement in his defense."

"You're not the one I asked for it." But even as Chase began to argue, Dixon leaned back in his chair – someone settling in for a long listen. His body language spoke for him, and if Sydney had ever doubted his influence upon Chase, she didn't any longer. "Make it quick."

"This didn't begin with a secret Vaughn kept from the agency," Sydney said, taking one step forward. She could feel Vaughn's eyes upon her, but she didn't dare turn to face him – not now, while they both needed her strength. "This began with a secret the agency kept from Vaughn: his past. His father's identity. His own name."

"And how is this relevant?" Chase did not look swayed yet.

"It's relevant because the agency kept those secrets from Vaughn for a reason -- to protect our national security and, in a way, to protect him. He would have had every right to feel betrayed, knowing how much you'd kept from him and how long you let him believe in a lie. But the CIA didn't betray Vaughn. They made a choice, and nobody in this room today can say whether or not it was a mistake."

Dixon pursed his lips. "Ancient history, Syd." He was coaching her, not dissuading her, but Sydney's heart only beat faster.

"You've already cleared Vaughn of the most substantive charges," she pleaded. "If you know he's not guilty of treason, then you know his communications with Katya Derevko were like those with any number of deep-intel sources."

"We all talk to shady characters sometimes," Chase said. "Part of the job. But taking off with no communication, working with enemies of the state –"

"Is nothing compared to what Arvin Sloane has done, and you gave him management of APO! Nothing compared to what my father's done, and he's inherited the agency from Sloane. And it's nothing compared to working for the Alliance through SD-6 for seven years. I think I could count up more mistakes just in this room, but it would be overkill." Not to mention run the risk of hacking Chase off – Sydney knew she was too close to that already. For her own sake, she'd never cared about making her superiors angry; for Vaughn's, she could be careful. "The CIA couldn't endure if our institutional memory was too good. Like you said, Director Chase, going into those dark places is part of our job. That's why we don't look too hard at people's pasts. We look at what they're going to do in the future."

Sydney felt as though she were gulping in air before diving back under the waves. Chase nodded slowly; she wasn't convinced, but she was listening. "All very true, Agent Bristow. But sometimes the past is our only guide to the future. Agent Vaughn's past doesn't look very persuasive right now."

"Appearances can be deceiving. Nobody knows that better than I do." Sydney finally let herself turn to look Vaughn in the eyes; he was staring at her as though he'd never seen her before. Just that was enough to make her throat tighten, but she held on to her control with all her strength. "Vaughn chose to keep secrets from us, the same way the agency chose to keep secrets from him. His reasons weren't that different, if you think about it. But the CIA's secrecy left one of their agents vulnerable to manipulation down the line. Vaughn's secrecy allowed him to move against a powerful Rambaldi believer, just hours before the Mueller Device would have been activated. Can you really judge his choices more harshly than ours?"

The room was utterly silent; Sydney wondered if Vaughn could hear her heart hammering in her chest. "Sometimes what looks like loyalty can be betrayal," she said, thinking of Katya's supposed kindness to the younger Vaughn who missed his father; Lauren's feigned devotion to her husband; or Elena's manipulation of the child Nadia.

Then she thought about Sloane's secrecy about Nadia's parentage, kept only to protect Jack; about Weiss' refusal to keep their team's secrets, which had saved Nadia's life; Jack's murder of the woman he thought was Irina; and about the Milan Prophecy, and the fact that Vaughn had given up his home, his job, his friends and his safety all to protect her.

Quietly, she concluded, "And sometimes – what looks like betrayal can be loyalty after all. I don't think anyone here still doubts that Agent Vaughn was always loyal to his country and to – to us, in the agency. The lies aren't as important as that one truth."

Vaughn swallowed hard, and the sight of it finally brought tears to Sydney's eyes. To hell with objectivity, she thought, knowing that Chase and Dixon knew and understood all. There was nothing more for her to say, nothing more for her to do. Sydney sat heavily in her chair, daring to glance up at Vaughn once more.

He smiled at her, struggling for his own composure, and Sydney knew – even if she hadn't saved Vaughn from prison, she had still saved him in one way, perhaps the best way of all.

**

"Is there any word in the English language sweeter than 'acquitted'? I don't think so." Weiss slapped Vaughn on the shoulder, which was the he-man equivalent of hugging.

"I wasn't acquitted, exactly. Three months of probation --"

"Which is NOTHING. You got sentenced to paid vacation. That doesn't suck." Weiss grinned. "You've got to be feeling good."

"Relieved, definitely."

"Relieved is good."

"It's better than bad, anyway." Vaughn still looked like he'd been wrung out like a dishtowel; Weiss couldn't blame him. "Have you seen Syd?"

"No. I thought I heard she was in the meeting, going all Johnnie Cochran for you."

"Yeah, she did. I'd like to thank her, but – well, she vanishes better than most people." The room was crowded with agents, but none of them were Sydney. Although Weiss could sympathize with Vaughn's eagerness as he scanned the crowd, he understood what was going on.

"Vaughn, man, give her some space. She's come around, but – she went through the wringer the last few months. Maybe you and Syd have to take this one step at a time."

After a deep breath, Vaughn nodded. "You're right. I know you're right. It's just hard, that's all." He straightened up, and for the first time the suit seemed to fit him; he'd stopped being Matthias Diestler, fugitive rogue agent, and started being plain old Vaughn again. All the weirdness fell away, and there had been times during the past eight months when Weiss would've sworn weird was here to stay. "So, I don't guess you guys kept up the rent on my apartment."

"Look on the bright side – you were paying too much for a one-bedroom anyway. Tomorrow you can hit Craig's List, and we'll have you fixed up with something better in no time. Hey, all your stuff's in storage; we can get it as soon as you're ready. I'll even bring the U-Haul."

Vaughn grinned. "Your real friends are the ones who'll help you move."

"And don't you ever forget it," Weiss said, offering another manly-emotion back slap for emphasis.

He tried explaining the secret language of the back slap to Nadia later that day, but she insisted that she preferred hugging. "It's warmer. More affectionate."

"When it comes to you, absolutely." Weiss was helping her get her desk set back up again – a simple task, but something she wanted to do. He remembered where the beanbag octopus went, a key detail. "But my love for you and for Vaughn are very different things."

"I should hope so." Then Nadia's smile became even wider. "Papa. I thought you'd gone."

Weiss turned to see Jack Bristow, who apparently had gotten "Papa" as long as Sloane was hanging on to "Dad." _Nadia has two daddies,_ he thought, before deciding to keep that joke to himself for the rest of his life, lest he be overheard by one of the two daddies, either of whom would see to it that his body parts ended up at the bottom of many different oceans.

"Nadia, I was hoping I'd catch you." Although Jack still acted uneasy around Nadia, he kind of acted uneasy around everyone; Weiss figured the fact that the guy was actually smiling a little was a good sign for the new father-daughter relationship. "I made reservations at the seafood place you recommended. Tomorrow night, eight o'clock."

"Perfect." Nadia touched Jack's arm briefly, then said to them both, "I want to grab my bag from the workout area. I'll be right back." As she hurried away, Weiss watched her with a grin – which faded as he turned to Jack, whose hopeful smile had instantly morphed into a laser-hot glare.

"She's already working out again," Weiss blurted out. "That's great, huh?"

Jack folded his arms. "I don't think she should overdo it. And I think the people around her should take responsibility for her welfare, instead of blithely writing off risks to her health as 'great, huh.' I see you don't agree."

"I do agree! Except that I don't, I mean – yeah, she should take it easy, but she's okay –"

"Mr. Weiss, I don't have time for incoherent babbling, even though I realize it's a favorite hobby of yours. What I do have time for is seeing to my daughter's welfare. Both my daughters. It's going to be a challenge, taking care of two daughters, but I see it as a reason to redouble my efforts." The gleam in Jack's eyes was almost like enjoyment, and Weiss could almost believe Jack was putting him on just for the fun of it. Maybe. Or maybe not. "I'm sure that, in the future, your vigilance will also increase."

"Definitely. Positively." Weiss, now completely out of words, settled for making the OK sign with his fingers. Sighing heavily in apparent disgust, Jack went on his way.

_And I thought Sloane was bad. _ Weiss thought, _My life as I knew it is over. OVER. _

**

 

**Mexico City, Mexico**

 

Sark flexed his hand, then again. "This is the first week I've been able to move my arm without pain. I consider the scar on my shoulder a warning against going soft." Something dangerous rippled behind his gaze, but then it was gone, replaced by Sark's usual cool demeanor. "Say whatever else you will about Katya Derevko, but the woman was a master at manipulation."

The hotel suite had a view of the ocean, brilliant green water cradled in a crescent of perfect golden sand. Neither Sark nor Sloane turned toward the spectacular view, instead ignoring it completely. They sat on a wicker bench, drinking their sangria, posed in a mockery of relaxation and camaraderie – while in fact they were carefully negotiating the terms of their new arrangement.

"I would never deny Katya's ability," Sloane said. "Or her insight. I only condemn her lasting fealty to a dream that many of us –" His nod acknowledge Sark as one of that number. "—no longer find acceptable."

"So why then do you wish to infiltrate that world again? After moving against both Elena and Katya Derevko, I must tell you, your credibility among Rambaldi's followers is a far less impressive thing than it once was."

"There are secrets still out there, Mr. Sark. Prophecies unread, devices undreamt-of. If we don't find these items first, they will inevitably be misused once more."

Used against Sydney, against Jack, against Nadia. Sloane knew he would be keeping them safe, whether they realized it or not. His time with Katya had reminded him of the miracles within Rambaldi's work, the sense of pure exhilaration that every new unfolding brought, even despite the pain that work inevitably caused. Ever since he had learned that he was not Nadia's father – not anyone's father – Sloane had known a deep hollowness that only Rambaldi had ever filled. Perhaps this was the only love of his life left to him.

But this time he would be stronger, smarter. He could keep his friends close (and somehow, Sark was now of this number) and his enemies closer. Katya's plans had never truly tempted him because they promised death and danger to those he loved; Sloane told himself that the Bristow family remained the stars in a constellation that would always allow him to steer a true course.

Perhaps he and Sark shared some of those stars. They had the same resolve – but also the same temptations. Only time would tell if they would help one another stand firm in the shifting world of Rambaldi's followers – or whether they would both fall, again, into darkness.

"We must find Olivia Reed, and soon." Sark's gaze was distant, focused on a horizon within his own mind. "I had trackers on most of her accounts, but she's moved every cent. My sources in the Himalayas have gone ominously silent. She's planning something, and I would wager that it is no minor operation."

Sloane's attitude toward Olivia Reed was largely one of absent-minded contempt. "I don't doubt that she's dangerous. Some insane people are. But her ideas about Rambaldi have always fallen significantly outside the mainstream. She even denies the importance of the Derevko bloodlines. I find it difficult to imagine that Olivia Reed's plans should be our first priority."

"You think her deranged." Turning toward the ocean view at last, Sark's eyes narrowed, perhaps from the brilliant sunlight reflected from the water. "But I warn you not to underestimate her. She is intelligent, ruthless and unpredictable."

"You sound concerned." Sloane steepled his hands. "Are you worried that she'll come after you?"

Sark did not respond to the taunt; he was serious, considering his options. "No, I doubt that's an issue. I can convince her that Vaughn betrayed me, I think. Lauren remains a powerful bond between us."

"Then we'll find out what Olivia's plotting. Win her trust. Take care of it." Sloane's words hung in the silence, calling forth the painful, unspoken question, then what?

They were quiet for a while, each of them lost in his own thoughts, his own grief.

"There was a time not long past when I thought I might lead a very different sort of life," Sark said quietly. "Fighting Rambaldi's followers instead of infiltrating them. Making up in some small way for past mistakes. Living by Sydney's side. It all seems like a fever dream, now."

"Yes," Sloane replied. "I know what you mean."

 

**

**Los Angeles, California**

 

"It's not like you HAVE to include me in all your plans, secret or otherwise. You know, it's like, you can throw a party, maybe you're grilling some chicken down by the beach, got a few Coronas, some margaritas, but you don't invite everybody you know, right? Because then you're talking about a lot of chicken. Like, crazy amounts. Doesn't mean you don't like the people you didn't invite. Just – not enough chicken."

"It wasn't about chicken." Sydney frowned. "Even metaphorical chicken. I just wasn't sure you'd keep it secret." When Marshall's eyes widened, sad as a puppy's, she hastened to add, "I should have been. I know that now. But when I made that choice --- Marshall, I was in a dark place. I doubted some people I never should have doubted for a second, including you. I'm sorry."

He forgave her instantly, she could see; Marshall always did. Happily, he said, "Hey, I made it to the party anyway, and that's all that matters."

"Yeah, it is. Because you saved Nadia's life. I owe you for that."

"No, you don't." Marshall's voice was unexpectedly firm. "Taking care of you guys – that's my job. Nobody owes me for doing my job."

Her smile was so broad her cheeks almost hurt. "We'll have to agree to disagree on that one." She hugged Marshall tightly, then straightened up. "I'm headed home. Gotta help Nadia get ready for her big night out."

"I think we still have one issue left to discuss, one more item on the agenda, if you will." Taking up his clipboard, as though he were an instructor completing an exam, he said, "What do you do the next time you have a little project going on the side?"

"I ask you to be a part of it."

"Why?"

"Because I can trust you, completely."

Marshall smiled, but he held his pose. "And why else?"

Sydney thought about it for a few minutes, then realized the answer. "Um, because you're, well – you're smarter than we are."

"_Thank_ you," he said, and now his grin was real.

 

**

"I'm not jealous of the new baby, so – relax."

Jack tried to obey Sydney's orders, but he knew himself to be as nervous and fidgety as a teenage boy come to pick up his prom date. While Nadia finished getting ready, Sydney was clearly settled in for a long, cozy night at the house: blue jeans, red T-shirt, the pigtails that still reminded him of her first day at school. He, meanwhile, was shifting from foot to foot. When Sydney raised an eyebrow, Jack confessed, "It's unnerving. Waiting."

"You're really nervous, aren't you? And it doesn't have anything to do with my reaction."

He tried to find the right words – the ones that wouldn't touch upon too many old scars – then realized that was impossible. "Let's just say that I'd like to do better this time. Though I suppose I could scarcely do worse."

His daughter – his older daughter, he reminded himself – considered that, and some shadow of the hardness he'd seen in her eyes the past few months was still there. But Sydney spoke gently. "You weren't the best when it came to – coming to ball games, or understanding when I had fights with my friends, or, well, stuff like that." Her grin surprised him. "But when it came to breaking me out of top-security federal institutions, you did great."

Jack finally smiled too. "It's not much of a specialty."

"Don't knock it." She stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the cheek, then straightened his tie for him. "Maybe sometime soon all three of us can do something. You should come by for dinner soon. Next week, maybe?"

Sydney hadn't invited him to her home in almost two years. "I'd like that. Will Weiss be here?"

"Let's make it just dad and daughters the first time. We can have Weiss over soon."

He waited a few beats for Sydney to say more, but she didn't; instead, she bit her lip and developed a sudden, unconvincing interest in a scuff mark on her kitchen island. Jack decided that, as long as he was allowed good-father status, he might as well use the latitude it gave him. "When you ask Weiss to dinner, will you also ask Vaughn?"

"Dad –"

She'd stiffened, half-turned away from him already. "Forget I mentioned it."

"No, it's not – I mean, I'm glad you asked. I just don't know what to answer."

"I read the transcript of Vaughn's hearing. The things you said – I think you believed in them. In him."

"Do you?"

Jack considered that at some length. His general opinion of Vaughn had varied in particulars, but never from the basic conviction that he was not good enough, strong enough – simply not _enough_ for Sydney. Yet he understood this was not his decision to make. Besides that, the strange commonalities between Jack and Vaughn had only expanded; Jack, too, had sacrificed his relationship with Sydney for her own good once – and he too had been wrong. He knew the pain of that, the strength it took, and the depth of the love that could motivate such an enormous error.

Vaughn shared some traits in common with Irina, as well, and these were the ones that helped Jack realize his answer.

"When your mother re-entered our lives –" he struggled to find the right words. "I made a lot of mistakes. I would tell you to trust your instincts. I know that you may need your doubt, Sydney. But I think you'll be smarter than I was. I think you'll know when to let that doubt go."

For once, he appeared to have said exactly the right thing. Sydney squeezed his hand tightly, blinking fast. "I needed to hear that," she whispered – and then, almost instantly, brightened. "Oh, you look beautiful!"

"Thanks," Nadia said, stepping out from her room at long last. In her beige sundress and loose bun, she reminded Jack almost painfully of Irina at that same age.

And then he saw that there were tears in her eyes. "Nadia, what's wrong?"

"When I was emptying my day purse, I found this note from Dad – Sloane – it says he's gone. He's just gone."

"What?" Sydney frowned. "He didn't tell you? Either of you?"

Jack went to his younger daughter; as they read Sloane's note together, he put one hand on her shoulder. He wondered if she understood what it meant, and thought that probably she did. The only question was whether Sloane understood himself. For all their sakes, Jack hoped so.

**

 

**Johannesburg, South Africa**

 

"I admit, I had doubts about such an aggressive drug regimen – but you can't argue with results."

"It's not about the drugs." Olivia Reed smiled gently. "It's meant to be."

She lay on her back, happy and content, at peace with the world. Her brilliant golden hair flowed around her like the halo above a Madonna's head. At last, her destiny had found her; at last, Rambaldi's will would be done.

She ought to have known that his destiny offered her rewards to make up for the losses. Nothing would ever really heal Lauren's death, but at least this came close. Even now, a safe center of operations was being prepared. With money, weapons, time and now this – soon, nothing would be beyond her reach.

"Have you given any more thought to genetic testing?" the doctor said, as he continued his examination. "At your age, it's customary –"

"I told you, no. Genetic testing is done to warn about defects, to prepare for possible termination. And that's not going to happen here. My daughter is perfect. She is healthy. She is wanted."

Her hand stole down to cover her still-flat belly.

Olivia whispered, "She is chosen."

 

**

 

**Los Angeles, California **

 

Something was lonelier about hotel rooms than homes; Vaughn couldn't put his finger on exactly why, but somehow a hotel made you more aware of silence, of time passing, of the arbitrariness of your own habits.

Vaughn had spent too much time in hotel rooms during the past eight months, but he was resigned to at least a few more nights in this one. A CIA-issue laptop sat glowing on a nearby table, displaying various one-bedroom apartments available in the Silverlake area. Tomorrow, he could begin touring them, seeing which ones could be refitted to meet security standards. Closet space would be nice, too.

He remembered the cramped cubbyhole of an apartment he'd lived in when he and Sydney first started going out – how they hadn't both been able to move without brushing against each other – and one thing led to another –

_Stop this._ He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, blacking out the world for a moment, then shook his head. At this point, just the fact that he'd regained Sydney's trust was such a miracle that it would be childish to feel sad because he hadn't regained her love.

_Real mature thing to say. Too bad it doesn't have anything to do with how you actually feel. _

Obviously, the hotel-room syndrome was getting to him. Vaughn ran his hands through his hair, grabbed his jacket and his keys and headed out. Not to any particular destination – just out. If he weren't in a lonely, impersonal hotel room, maybe he wouldn't be haunted by Sydney all the time.

But even as he pulled out of the hotel parking lot, car window cracked open to let the night breeze surround him, Vaughn knew that was one more futile hope. He'd covered the globe during the past eight months, and every place he went reminded him of Sydney; every country was one more place she'd had an adventure, and every native costume was just one of her disguises. Vaughn could hear her footsteps on any street, just a few paces ahead of his own.

Los Angeles, of course, was the worst of all. If he took that exit off the highway, he'd drive right by the mini-golf place where he'd watched her with Will and Francie that time. But if he went to that café, the one with the great cheesecake, then he'd be just down the street from the booth where he'd given her a Christmas present. Anywhere near the UCLA campus was out. Or the beach. Or the observatory. This whole city was hers, even more than the rest of the world.

Maybe he shouldn't fight it, then. Maybe he should go to the place that reminded him of her most of all.

The train station was quiet, mostly hushed in the weeknight lull. Vaughn tucked his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket and listened to the Muzak playing softly through the speakers; he had to strain to hear it, but once it had been enough for him and Syd to dance by.

This was a place Sydney used to come when she felt lost or afraid – a place where she could watch normal people leading their normal lives. Vaughn hadn't understood what she meant then, about being so far from normality; he'd caught up with her there, at least. As he settled back onto one of the old carved benches, Vaughn observed some of the few commuters straggling through. A elderly woman in a pale blue cardigan shuffled slowly toward the ticket counter, dragging behind her a rolling suitcase nearly as big as she was. A teenage girl with braided hair was laughing on her cell phone, telling her friend all about how crazy her job had been that day – a counter shift at some kind of store, apparently. A middle-aged man in a navy suit held a bouquet of roses, destined for some woman at the end of the line; the grim look on his face and the way he gripped the stems like a sword handle made Vaughn suspect these were flowers of apology.

Other lives – they seemed more foreign and exotic than other countries, at this point.

Vaughn leaned against the armrest of the bench, making himself comfortable. Every other time he'd come here, he'd done so to meet Sydney; this was the first time he'd actually been able to see the train station through her eyes. It made him feel closer to her than he had in a long time, and that experience was worth the pain of missing her.

"He messed up," Sydney said. "The guy with the flowers."

She was sitting on the other side of the bench, back to his back, one seat over. Although Vaughn's heart leapt into his throat – he'd always thought that was hyperbole, but it actually summed up the feeling pretty well – he managed not to reveal his shock. "I think so too. He doesn't look happy."

"Maybe he shouldn't. There are some problems flowers don't fix."

He risked a joke. "Tell me about it."

"You're lucky." Unbelievably, he could hear a smile in Sydney's voice. "I never was much for flowers anyway."

"I remember." Though Vaughn now felt as if he'd never been gladder to be anywhere in his life, he knew it might be kindest if he left. "You came here to relax. Maybe I should go."

"I came here looking for you." Sydney's laugh was a soft thing, less than a breath. "You weren't at the hockey rink, where you like to blow off steam. And you weren't at the bar that sells those really good burgers with toasted buns, where you go to zone out. You didn't go to the café with that really good cheesecake, either. I went to all your places – and I kept remembering that time you went to all of mine – and then I realized, maybe that was where I should be checking."

"Good guess." For so long, he'd believed that Sydney would never understand him again; Vaughn was ashamed for having underestimated her. "I just wanted to tell you, what you said before the committee – that meant a lot. To them, obviously, because they let me go, but to me, too. Even if they had locked me up – Syd, I wouldn't have cared if they did lock me up. Not after I knew that you believed me. That you believed in me."

"You hurt me so much." Sydney said it matter-of-factly, which made it sting all the worse. "But looking back, I realize – I always counted on you being there for me, someone for me to tell all my problems to. I don't think I paid enough attention to being there for you. To listening to you."

"I didn't give you a chance to listen."

"You were trying to, in Santa Barbara. And our whole relationship – I've always counted on you. It had to be a big leap for you to take, reversing that. It doesn't make up for everything, especially not the secrets you kept from me. But it helps me understand."

_Great, _Vaughn thought. _ Now can you explain it to me?_ "I wanted to be that guy for you. The one who could take care of you, no mattered what happened. You called me your guardian angel – it seems like a joke now, but for a long time, that was what I most wanted to be."

Sydney leaned back, far enough that he could almost see her face; her pigtails were close enough to touch. "It doesn't seem like a joke. Not ever, Vaughn. You were taking care of me, even when you thought it would cost you everything."

On the precipice of forgiveness, Vaughn pulled back; the danger to Sydney was still real. "You probably don't want to hear this, but the Milan Prophecy – it hasn't gone away. We know now that it might not be true, but it might."

The pain Sydney must have felt at accepting anything Rambaldi had said as true weighed her reply, made it leaden and cold. "Yeah, it might. I know that. I've thought about it a lot."

"So I could still be the one to kill you. Syd, I don't know how I'm supposed to go on, knowing that."

She turned to him at last, face to face. "Maybe. And even if it is true – Vaughn –" Her dark eyes were liquid now, melting him as she reached for his hand; he took it, gripping her fingers as though they were a lifeline. "Maybe there's a mistake on a mission, one of the countless mistakes either of us could make any day. Maybe you talk instead of watching the road while you drive, again. Or maybe – maybe when I'm old, and I'm sick, and the doctors have to ask my husband whether to turn off the machines, you'll respect my wishes and say yes."

His hand tightened around hers. Sydney was wearing their engagement ring.

"When you asked me to marry you, and I said yes, we gave our lives to each other," Sydney whispered. "I know you'll always try to keep me safe. I'll do the same for you. That's all anybody can ever do. I love you, Vaughn. I always did, and I always will."

Vaughn kissed her palm, pressed it to his cheek, struggled to breathe evenly instead of giving in to tears. "I love you too, Syd."

For a while they simply sat like that, his face resting against her hand, the soft music filling the empty spaces of the train station. Sydney smiled at him, her expression somehow new to him; he'd always thought of her as girlish before, younger than her years, at least when she smiled. No more. Vaughn understood how that felt.

"We could stay here all night," Sydney murmured. "Or we could go somewhere."

The quickening of his pulse couldn't override his brain – not yet, anyway. "When we got back together the last time, we kinda rushed it."

No other word for it: She grinned. "Some mistakes are worth making twice."

They rose, walking to the end of the station benches, holding hands over the divider. When they reached the aisle, Sydney swung herself playfully into his arms – a gentle hug, one that gave their emotions an outlet without overwhelming them both. Vaughn kissed her hair, then her mouth, and swayed with her as though they might start dancing again. A few other passengers were glancing at them, surreptitiously, guessing about the lives of one young couple just as Vaughn had been guessing a few minutes ago. None of them could ever hit on the truth of what he and Sydney had been through to reach this moment – but then, he didn't know their truths either. Other lives were other countries, even those of the people you loved; the best you could do was build a bridge and make it strong.

"Let's go to that restaurant you love," he murmured against her temple. "The one with the strings of lights."

"No, let's not go there." Sydney's voice was odd for a moment, but then she brightened. "Let's find a new place. Totally new. Someplace we've never been before in our lives."

He knew what she was asking for: another beginning.

"You've got it," Vaughn said, taking her hand. "Let's go exploring."

 

THE END


	11. Chapter 11

**North of Ekibastuz, Kazakhstan**

 

"They can't leave us here forever," Jack said, near twilight on the third day.

"Don't be so sure." Sydney sat opposite from him in the least filthy corner of their cell, using the stale crust of her bread to sop up the remainders of the pitifully thin soup they'd had as their only meal in the past twenty-four hours. "Mom was kept in various holes in the ground for a year."

Jack had to admit the justice of this, but he added, "We didn't know to look for her. But your mother will realize almost immediately what happened, and she knows the right area to search."

Instead of being comforted, Sydney simply curled her knees more sharply into her chest. "It might take her a week. Or two, or three. It's pure chance, whether or not she hears in time."

"She'll come." Jack had no illusions about the risks, but in their current situation, realism was an unnecessary burden for him to carry; it could speak for itself.

Sydney leaned her head back against the wall, slow and tired. "I shouldn't have said that to her. About only coming when she needs us."

"Sydney –"

"I knew it even then, but what she'd said – about coming to me – it hurt, but in a good way. I didn't want to feel that. To feel anything."

Quietly, he said, "You've done what you felt you had to do, Sydney. You've – pushed people away the past few months, but your mother and I have always understood why." How could they not? "Don't feel guilty. There's no need."

The silence that fell afterward promised to stretch on for a while. Sighing, Jack turned his attention to studying their cell; he had done this before without any helpful insight, but there was no point in giving up.

He and Sydney had apparently been taken to an old stone building; although they had been hooded during their trip, he'd heard no sounds of civilization, no other voices beyond their party, the entire time. When he'd been allowed outside to relieve himself – rope around his wrists, guards pushing him toward a dark and odiferous shack, treatment he could not stand to think of being given to Sydney, though she had not complained – Jack had glimpsed no other complete structures, only ruins. To judge by the irregular shape of the bricks and the severely recessed mortar between them, this building was several centuries old, probably a Cossack _stanitsa_. The floor was made of stone, but dirt was so thickly layered in three of the corners to almost constitute soil again; the doors were wood, which would have been very good news if armed guards hadn't been standing on the other side at all times. (He'd listened carefully for any absences, but their captors were vigilant, never stepping away without replacements.)

_Technology is the friend of escape, _Jack thought. In a modern structure, there would have been air vents, electrical wiring in the walls and other elements they could've used to their advantage. Here there was only rock, and its very primitiveness defeated them.

One window, higher than Jack's head and no bigger than a shoebox, had been created by knocking away stones a long time ago. Through it, they could glimpse a sliver of gray sky. The wind blew into their cell – sometimes carrying a few flakes of snow or beads of sleet – ensuring they would always be cold. Without pillows or blankets, he and Sydney had only been able to keep themselves from shivering by leaning against one another's shoulders at night.

Sydney had been able to sleep, a little. Jack could only lie awake, feeling that he was guarding her, painfully aware of how little protection he could give his daughter now.

Darkness was falling, casting their small room into even deeper shadow. They had been allowed no candle or fire; at night, the only illumination was the distant glow of their captors' lanterns, bleeding in through the window with the cold. He studied Sydney's profile in the last of the light – even thinner, even more drawn. Both her need to speak and her need to preserve her self-created solitude were palpable. Perhaps he should try again.

"You've been undercover," he said. "You know how sometimes – the act you have to assume to survive – it becomes real, when you stay in it too long." The memory of his first years after losing "Laura" seemed to be part of the coldness around them. "I made that mistake. I'd like something better for you."

She turned her face up to him; the shell around her had cracked. "You don't know what that means to me."

"What?" Jack hated to have to ask, but it would be worse to be wrong.

"Just saying that you should've changed things. You've said it before, I know, but – it always matters, Dad. Always."

Jack knelt by her side. "Sweetheart." He clasped the side of her face in his hand, and she leaned against it. The chill that surrounded him had almost numbed his hands. "I love you."

"I love you too." Even when she was tired and dirty, Sydney had the most beautiful smile Jack had ever seen. It lasted only for a second before she once again became grave. "And that's why we have to talk."

He should have known that even her emotional vulnerabilities were used to serve a purpose. His daughter knew how to turn even her softness into a tool. Proud, Jack said, "So talk."

"We both know Monarch's going to be here soon. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow – but she's not just going to leave us out here. She'll deal with us personally, and she'll use the fact that she made us both – care about her, like her, whatever word you want –"

"Those will do." Neither were precisely appropriate, but Jack did not care to identify the correct word in his case.

"And she's always been, well, fixated on you." Sydney's eyes met his, clear and steady. "We both know she's going to use me to try and make you talk. I want you to swear to me that you won't."

"Sydney –" As much as it pained him to contemplate the idea, he knew that Sydney was almost certainly correct. He could imagine Katya's wicked smile in too many guises – conspirator, lover, enemy – and it was easy to envision it responding to his daughter's pain. "I can't promise anything."

"Yes, you will." Her hands clamped down on his; in the cold, he could feel her bones against his, uncomfortably hard. "Everything I have done for the past ten months – every time I've hurt someone I care about – I did it all for one goal: stopping the Mueller Device from ever being built again. I owe that to Nadia."

"We all do," Jack answered, surprised that he meant it.

"Monarch might come here just to toy with us, but if she starts asking questions, it's for a reason. Whatever goal she has – whatever it is she wants to know – we can't give it to her. Not even if it kills us."

"My life is expendable. Yours is not."

"Don't you see?" A single tear fell from the corner of her eye, streaking a line down her cheek. "I've already given my life to stop her. Everything I cared about. The kind of person I used to be. I destroyed it – myself – to stop her, and if we don't stop her, then it was all for nothing. It can't be for nothing, Dad."

He wanted to tell her that she was wrong; it was never too late, not for Sydney. At times during the past few months, when he'd awakened with Irina by his side, Jack had even thought it might not be too late for him. But such sentiments sounded cheap and hollow here, when they huddled on the stone floor of the cell where they might very likely die. Only the promises he could make to her here and now really mattered.

Very quietly, he said, "I'll do what you ask."

"Don't lie. Not now, not about this, even if you think it would help."

"I'm telling you the truth." At least, it was the truth so far as anyone could promise; Jack had been in captivity often enough, and in conditions desperate enough, to know that there came a point where human behavior no longer responded to human will. But as long as his strength served him, he would obey. "I promise."

"Okay." Sydney tried to smile for him again. "No matter what she does – I can take it. As long as I know we haven't done all this for nothing."

Jack brushed back her hair. "We've destroyed dozens of Rambaldi papers and artifacts. Vaughn and Sark destroyed dozens more. For all we know, we've beaten her already."

Her smile widened, became almost real. "If that's the case, I wish she'd go ahead and show up. Then we could gloat."

He leaned back against the wall and folded Sydney against his chest. "Try to get some sleep, Sydney."

"I'm not tired," she murmured, even as her head drooped onto his shoulder. The cold and lack of food were taking their toll.

_On both of us,_ Jack thought, as he pulled her closer, wrapping even the edges of his robe around her. Perhaps there was nothing else he could do for Sydney, but at least he could try to keep her warm.

 

**Kashmir, Pakistan**

 

"My little witch."

Irina forced herself to smile as Gerard Cuvee handed her a glass of wine; they sat cross-legged on pillows, a low platform bed nearby. Gerard intended that they should move there shortly; she would do it, but only if she hadn't gotten the intel she needed first.

Then again – how likely was that? She let the thought illuminate her smile, give it sincerity. Gerard called her a witch because he wanted to think of her power as otherworldly, superstitious, something he didn't have to give her credit for possessing. Irina understood that he couldn't find any other way to acknowledge that sometimes she was smarter, faster and better than him.

"It's been a while," she said, leaning back so that her hair fell past her shoulder. "My sister Elena arranged matters so that I wouldn't have any guests for a while."

"To put it lightly." Gerard grinned, and in that moment Irina knew: He'd learned of her imprisonment and done nothing. Although she expected no loyalty from him, it was galling to realize that he had once again reveled in the idea of her trapped and powerless. "But you outsmarted her in the end, didn't you? No one can ever count you out, Irina."

"No. Not even Katya."

Revealing that she suspected Katya was a risk, but instantly Irina knew it had paid off. Gerard's eyes took on the eager light of a hunter who has just sighted prey. "You know at last, do you?"

"At last. She paid you well for your silence, I suppose."

"Payment? Ha! That _putain_. She killed my best people, threatened to kill more. Untrained or disloyal guards – it's as good as a death sentence." He took a deep gulp of wine before admitting, "I haven't known that long myself, if you want to hear the truth. Monarch played the game very cleverly."

Irina considered this. Probably Gerard was telling the truth, but exaggerating slightly; Katya had proved herself a duplicitous ally, and so he wanted to win Irina back again. This meant that his information was probably limited – but less so than hers, and at least fairly recent. It was worth continuing to play the game.

"When did you know?" Gerard asked.

"Not until the death of Thomas Brill." Obviously Irina could not tell the truth; she had chosen an incident she thought it likely Gerard would have heard about. "I knew he was one of her loyal followers, but he was murdered by others in her employ. From there I made the connection to Monarch."

Fortunately, Gerard did not press for details; unfortunately, he gave the very ones Irina least wanted to hear. "A rumor has it that it was Wilhelm Diestler's boy. I heard he was rogue. Is he one of Katya's, after all?"

"No one can ever be certain. But once I followed that trail, I realized where it led." In her anger, Irina's fingers pressed harder against the cut glass of her wine goblet, crystalline angles cutting into her palms so much that they would leave marks. Matthias Diestler, Michael Vaughn, the man who broke her daughter's heart.

The man who would someday kill her.

The knowledge lanced through Irina again, no less painful for its familiarity. Unlike Jack and Sydney, she wasn't immediately panicked or incensed; Irina had good reason to know how long Rambaldi's words could take to come to fruition. It was possible that Vaughn would not even come near Sydney for years or even decades. But unlike her husband and daughter, she harbored no question whether what Rambaldi had written had come to pass. After seeing Nadia's motionless, bloodied body in Sevogda, Irina knew better than to doubt.

"I'm planning a move against Katya," Irina said. "I want to know if you'll back me up."

"Only if you're going to win. But then – you so often do." Gerard smiled; his hand curled across her thigh, and she fought back a shiver of revulsion. "And I take it I will be richly compensated for my help?"

Irina forced herself to laugh, soft and throaty, leaning back her head so that he could kiss her neck. "You know I give you what no one else can give you."

"Only you."

Then they were kissing, blade-sharp kisses that were meant to hurt as much as arouse. She felt the perverse excitement of the illicit, but no more – and that alone had long since ceased to be enough for Irina. If she were to avoid a distasteful hour on that low bed, she needed to get more information from Gerard, and soon.

"We have to act quickly," she murmured into his ear. "You know there's no time to lose."

Her bluff didn't exactly work, but close enough. "Why now? What's the rush?"

"Katya's most recent captive – she might kill him at any time." Irina gave Gerard her best open-mouthed smile. "And I think that pleasure should be mine.

This much was true; with Nadia as good as dead, Irina no longer felt the slightest need to preserve Sloane for her sake. And though Sloane was not precisely a captive, Gerard wouldn't know that.

But then Gerard laughed. "Ready to finish off Bristow at last, hm? Fine with me -- I owe your husband payback for an inconvenient visit he paid to my base in Morocco recently. I can't believe that little slap you gave me convinced him we were enemies. After we beat him together in his cell? Foolish man." He chucked Irina beneath her chin; she kept her smile frozen, though now fear hammered within her chest. "But admit it – you also want to save that daughter of yours. You're still sentimental about her, aren't you?"

"Yes," Irina said, idly plucking at the straps of her bag. "From time to time."

Then she pulled out her pistol and shot Gerard through the neck. He choked out one word – "Witch" – then collapsed beside her, gagging out his last.

Irina ignored him while he died, turning to ransack through his papers, in search of anything that might be useful. There was more information he could have been tricked into sharing, but it was unimportant now. Even though Gerard Cuvee had tormented her as few other people on Earth – serving as her jailer, allowing the theft of the infant Nadia, cruelly hurting Jack, manipulating Irina into shooting Sydney – she could take no pleasure in his demise.

Katya had captured Jack and Sydney. Nothing mattered now but getting to them in time.

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

Weiss stared down at the various formulae Marshall had printed out, each one of them so large, squiggly and incomprehensible as to make Rambaldi's work look sane. "You're gonna translate this into actual human English, right?"

"That's pretty much half my job."

They were in Weiss' apartment, supposedly playing poker – a pursuit Carrie approved of, as Marshall invariably came home a couple hundred bucks richer. Instead they'd turned the living room into a think tank, with papers spread out across the coffee table (and over the old issues of _Sports Illustrated _that formed a near-permanent table-topper) and a pizza box (already half-empty) on the ottoman. Alan lay across the room, head on his paws, as if taking this all under advisement.

"Okay, this 'colcothar' stuff – it's a Rambaldi formula, apparently. But at first that didn't make any sense to me, because in alchemy, colcothar is what's left over when you make something else, namely, as you're getting closer to the Philosopher's Stone. It's not something you make for its own sake. So why would there ever be a formula for it?"

"I'm with you so far," Weiss said, which was at least mostly true.

Marshall held up another page, one that showed both a right hand and a left hand scribbling in different languages. "Then I realized that the formula – it was kind of like a mirror image of this."

"A mirror of the hands?" His mental image of this began to get a little too M. C. Escher for comfort, which was to say, any at all.

"No, no, of the formula. The green stuff they injected into Nadia to make her, you know, 'speak to Rambaldi.' When Rambaldi talks about colcothar, he's not talking about the actual alchemical concept. He's talking about the byproducts from distilling that serum. The colcothar is what's left over from that."

Weiss reviewed this as best he could; though he loathed Rambaldi-speak more than ever, he was getting more fluent. "So what you're telling me is that when you make this green Rambaldi torture serum, it kinda – separates in two. You also end up with some other fluid that's just as important."

"Exactly!" Marshall brightened. People understood the guy's explanations so seldom, Weiss thought, that any change from that pattern was probably a welcome relief. "Except that I'm not sure many of the Rambaldi followers ever understood this – maybe nobody except Elena Derevko. Out of all the hundreds of Rambaldi documents the CIA and SD-6 cataloged over the years, this one page Elena had is the only one that ever really explained the colcothar."

_Bet you cash Monarch had a copy, _Weiss thought but didn't say. He'd already told Marshall way the hell too much as it was, but there was no point in taking the security breach any further than necessary. "So, was my instinct right? I mean, this colcothar stuff – it's going to wake Nadia up, isn't it?"

"I think so."

"You think?"

"Yes. I think. I can't make you any promises." Marshall gave Weiss the meanest look of which he was capable, which wasn't all that mean, really, but Weiss got the idea. "I have degrees in electrical engineering, computer science, chemistry and physics. That didn't leave me with a lot of time for med school."

Holding up his hands in surrender, Weiss said, "Sorry, man. It's just – Nadia's life might depend on this."

"Yeah. I know." After a few moments' silence, Marshall tentatively asked, "Not to be overly grim or – well, it is grim, not making light of – Weiss, it's not like there's much to lose. Is it?"

"No." That was as close as Weiss had ever come to admitting that Nadia might not ever wake up. He was determined that it was as close as he was ever going to come.

"When I analyze the colcothar, yeah, to me it looks like it counteracts the Rambaldi serum. And Sloane said the Mueller Device kinda acted like the Rambaldi serum, just on like some whoa-huge global scale, so it stands to reason that the colcothar would undo what the Mueller Device did, too." Marshall added, "But we don't know what else has happened to her, you know? The Mueller Device's effect might be what's keeping her under, but it might also be all that's keeping her alive."

"We don't know that." Weiss stood up. "This is the only way out she's got."

They were quiet for a while; the pizza cooled, unfinished, while they both stared down at the pages, as if willing them to offer up a solid answer. The gnawing uneasiness in Weiss' belly was partly hunger, but more fear, and he couldn't eat while he was this afraid.

Believing in Nadia's revival was easier when it was just a question of faith. But when it came to trusting something in a Rambaldi document – actually taking the leap – that was scary as hell.

Maybe Marshall also had some kind of psychic ability, because just at that moment he said, "You sure you want to do this?"

"The papers said this is what would wake her up."

"Right. But – all those prophecies – they say that the Chosen One and the Passenger fight, and then one of them dies, right? I mean, that's kinda how it played out. And that would mean –"

"Rambaldi didn't know jack SHIT about the future." Weiss' voice was too loud; Alan sat upright, ears swiveling at the sound. "All these crazy people keep acting like he provided a blueprint to the whole future, but he didn't. Nobody ever did that. Nobody ever COULD. "

Marshall quickly interjected, "I'm not a believer, okay? I'm not. So amazingly not. But – I've seen the guy's design for a transistor. He wrote that down in the 15th century, Weiss. I know a working transistor when I see it, and that's definitely good technology. How did he know?"

"Maybe the guy was just a great scientist. A plain old ordinary genius, like Leonardo Da Vinci. Did anybody ever think of that?" Already Weiss felt better; he could give the guy credit for inventions without making him into some paranormal demigod. And a genius inventor might create the perfect antidote. "That doesn't mean he was psychic."

"You're right," Marshall said, then repeated, as if convincing himself, "You're right. Believing in all this psychic stuff – something Sloane-ish this way comes, you know? Not going there."

Weiss leaned back against his leather sofa; the cushions felt welcoming. "We gotta wrap this up. I'm taking Fontana and Burkett to Mexico tomorrow."

"Where are Sydney and Jack actually? I mean, I know where they're supposed to be."

"It's better if you can say you never knew that." Then Weiss realized what Marshall was really thinking about – his friends, and his need for truth. "I'm gonna tell them that you're in on this when they get back. And we'll talk about this colcothar thing. Make the decision together."

Marshall brightened, glad to be accepted into the fold. Weiss suspected Syd and Jack wouldn't be that high on the idea of a new recruit, but it was too late now. "I could go ahead and brew some up. Get it ready, just in case."

"Yeah," Weiss said. "You do that."

Sydney and Jack should have contacted him earlier today; the scheduled communication hadn't taken place. Weiss was too familiar with the unpredictable realities of field work to freak out about that, but if they weren't back by the time he returned from Mexico in two days, he'd have to do some fast-talking to Hayden Chase. Come to think of it, Sloane's deadline was coming right up too. Given that Sloane was almost certainly not going to show up bright and shiny in a few days – their whole operation was in danger. Weiss had been counting on one of the patented Jack Bristow Armor-Plated Alibis to cover Sloane's continued absence; yeah, he could come up with one himself, but he didn't kid himself that it would be as good.

"I can run a test – just a partial one, but something that would give us an idea how to formulate this stuff – if I have some of Nadia's blood. I could double-check some factors," Marshall said, now musing to himself. "I know you go up there all the time, so could you, uh, you know, steal a sample?"

The lab was filled with Nadia's blood samples; they took them all the time, never did a damn thing with them. Might as well put some to use. "You got it."

 

**Mumbai, India**

 

_You're rather late, you know. No doubt Goswami is long gone. _

The inner voice admonishing Vaughn belonged to Lauren. It often did, these days. After his madness in the weeks following Sydney's death, he knew better than to argue with it.

_You were taught about Rambaldi for a reason: to make you a pawn. You learned more than they ever counted on. But you didn't learn enough, did you? _

Vaughn continued to ignore this inner monologue as he made his way through the glutted streets of one of the city's most destitute neighborhoods, mud in his sandals, the stink of poverty thick in his nose. He'd paid too much attention to Lauren when she was real, alive, the beautiful young woman teaching him about Rambaldi as a way of helping him investigate Sydney's death. Looking back, he could see that she had calculated every fact he'd learned, every bit of that first evidence he'd discovered, all to make sure that he achieved a certainty she pretended not to possess.

_Why didn't you take the Milan Prophecy seriously? Why didn't you realize that it might be the truth? _

They'd hidden the prophecy together, chosen Wittenberg because Lauren had thought it would be romantic to visit Germany around Christmastime. She'd told him it was best to hide it – otherwise, those horrible people might think he was the one who'd hurt Sydney. They might reach out to him, suck him down in all that mire.

He'd agreed with her, bought her peppermints and cocoa, and strolled with her through the streets as they listened to carols in their original language. At the time, he was sure the prophecy was false – he didn't really believe in Rambaldi yet. Not then. But as snowflakes had settled in Lauren's pale hair, Vaughn had kept thinking: _How could I have saved Sydney? Was it something I did that night that condemned her to die? Something I didn't do? _He'd always felt that he'd failed Sydney somehow; the Milan prophecy had in some ways only confirmed his worst fears.

A breeze too muggy to be cooling swept through his sweat-damp hair. Vaughn saw Goswami's house – an older one, nice by this neighborhood's standards if no place else's. He knocked on the door; Goswami was an ally, assuming he was alive.

Someone opened the door, and it wasn't Goswami.

Vaughn went for his gun and had it in the guy's face before he realized the bearded man inside hadn't made a move. For a moment he felt foolish – had he just terrorized a friend or uncle? – but then he realized the person at the door wasn't surprised or frightened, either.

In Hindustani, Vaughn said, "Tell me why you're here."

"I'm sent to meet you."

"By Goswami?"

"No." The bearded man held out a cell phone and hit redial. Vaughn flinched – cell phones were excellent detonators – but then the other line started ringing.

Keeping the gun on the bearded man with one hand, Vaughn took the phone with the other; he held it to his ear just in time to hear a woman say, "Hello?"

"Irina Derevko." Vaughn couldn't manage a response other than her name. The wind gusted again, so hard that he almost stumbled off the stoop.

"Your moves are too predictable. You were being tracked to Goswami's house; an assassin would have been waiting for you if I hadn't sent my own man in first."

He wasn't exactly sure when Irina had appointed herself his life coach, but Vaughn was no bigger a fan of this concept than he had been when she first tried it in her CIA cell. "Tracked by whom?"

"The late Gerard Cuvee. I found your kill order in his computer." As he adjusted to the shock of hearing Irina's voice, Vaughn realized she was speaking over a motor – apparently she was in a truck or a plane. En route – where? "I also found proof that you've been trying to keep the Mueller Device from being rebuilt."

"I can't keep track of your attitudes about Rambaldi these days," Vaughn said, blinking in the fine, needle-sharp rain that had begun to fall. "Do you think that's a good thing or a bad thing?"

"I saved your life. Draw your own conclusions." At least, Vaughn thought, she didn't ask to be thanked. But his annoyance disappeared as Irina continued, "Sydney and Jack have been captured by Monarch."

"Oh, my God." He let his gun hand drop; the bearded man apparently didn't care, just kept watching impassively. "When?"

"Approximately three days ago. They're being held in Kazakhstan; I intend to get them out. But in order to do that, I need to find Monarch's strongholds. There's no time to search. But if you were once Monarch's pawn, you might have some clues I don't." Irina's words were sharper than the rain-bladed wind as she added, "You owe this to my daughter. Regardless of what you've done, I think you understand that."

Kazakhstan. Vaughn knew the locations instantly; he and Lauren had mapped them out years ago, drawing the longitudes and latitudes from Rambaldi's codes back in the days when he had thought it only a mathematical trick. He'd even sent some CIA personnel to check the areas out, years ago; they'd been deserted. Apparently Monarch had changed that in the years since – determined to create the final masterpiece in a place the master had signified as special. "I can think of five potential targets."

After he rattled them off to her, Irina said, "I found the one in the lower mountains; she was there for a while, but she's moved since. I'll take the other four one at a time."

"That's crazy. You take two, I'll take two. I'm only a few hours' flight –"

"You left my daughter to protect her from yourself. That's hardly a protection you should deny her now. I can handle the search." After a brief pause, she added, "Thank you."

The line went dead. Vaughn handed the phone back to the bearded man, after which the door was unceremoniously shut in his face.

Stay or go? Maybe Irina Derevko thought she could do anything, but even Irina could be wrong.

Lauren's voice, clearer than ever – as if she stood next to him – said, _What if you go and only end up hurting Sydney? What if this is how you kill her? _

For the first time, he let himself answer. "Maybe not searching for her is how I kill her." He wasn't going to find out.

Vaughn began running through the rain, parting the still-bustling crowd, making good time despite the mud clutching at his feet. If he pushed it, he could be at the airport in half an hour.

**

**Los Angeles, California**

 

No classified ads in the _Times _with encoded information.

No messages on any of their secure lines; the cheap-ass answering machine he'd bought at Target contained only the usual maternal nagging.

No slips of paper folded between the envelopes in his mailbox. No masking-tape Xs in nearby windows. Alan did not begin to speak in tongues, which for a dog would mean speaking at all.

In short, Weiss had absolutely no word from Sydney, Jack OR Sloane, which meant some or probably all of them were in deep shit. Weiss counted himself in with this number; he was in no mortal peril, but when Chase got angry – in other words, tomorrow morning – he was going to be the only person left around to blame. That meant the jail cell Sloane had so recently left would probably receive a new tenant, and Weiss wasn't sure when, or if, he'd get out again.

He found he didn't really care.

_I betrayed my duty to stay true to my friends and the woman I love, _Weiss said to the tribunal in his head. He was under no illusions that this would be a good enough explanation for the tribunal in reality, but he had no regrets.

"Just tell me you'll take Alan," Weiss said to Marshall after explaining all of this him on yet another deserted car on the train, as they barreled toward APO. "All kids love dogs, right? And Alan would probably like a little boy like Mitchell to play with. Going on secret missions doesn't leave me with a whole lot of time to take him to the park for some Frisbee action."

"Alan? Sure, great." Marshall seemed distracted. "They wouldn't send you to jail. Right? Oh, man. This is not good."

"Listen, there's not a whole lot of point in worrying about it."

"You could run. I could help. Flinkman's fake passports are the best in the biz; trust me."

The lump in Weiss' throat surprised him – _where the heck did that come from?_ – but he swallowed it down and smiled at Marshall. "Thanks, buddy. But I'm not getting you in trouble, and I'm not running. I've got work to do. You brought it, right?"

"Right." Hesitantly, Marshall opened up his briefcase and brought out a small vial of amber liquid – the colcothar serum. Then he held up another as well, in which the liquid was green; that was the stuff Sloane had used to torture Nadia. When Weiss stared at Marshall, he quickly added, "You have to make one to make the other. I figured there might be some tests you could run on it, something like that. So – you're using it today?"

"Tonight. Late. I don't want anybody around." Weiss took a deep breath, then closed his palm around the vials.

He wished he could've talked this over with Syd and Jack; might've been nice to have a little longer to think about it, too. But he had approximately 24 hours of freedom left, and pushing the responsibility off on Marshall was wrong. He had to take the chance, now.

All the same, Weiss found himself asking, "You did those tests, right? The ones we talked about?"

"And then some. Kinda made an interesting discovery, actually." Marshall perked up; apparently no crisis was so grave that a little science couldn't improve his mood. "I kept testing the stuff against Nadia's blood, but it wasn't working right –"

"What?"

"Don't panic, okay? Hear me out. I just couldn't get it; I'd calibrated it to her DNA exactly, fit it like a glove. And still nothing! Then I remembered something else in Elena's papers – the Chimera Project."

Weiss had found those records in Argentina and understood not a word. "That relates to this?"

Marshall nodded. They both fell silent as the train pulled into a stop and the doors opened; nobody walked into their car, so he spoke again as soon as the doors slid shut. "At first I thought, you know, Chimera, the mythological creature, part lion and part dragon and part eagle –"

"That's a lot of parts."

"Tell me about it. But then I realized, I was defining chimera the way Rambaldi would have. But Rambaldi never uses the word. It's only in the scientific papers. And in scientific terms, a chimera is something completely different. Basically, it's really rare – like, needle in a haystack, needle in a THOUSAND haystacks kind of thing – but sometimes a person can have two separate DNA signatures. Happens when you absorbed your twin back in the good ol' zygote days. Elena's Chimera Project was about artificially creating chimerism, or at least something that would look just like chimerism. In layman's terms, those papers described a way to permanently create a secondary DNA signature for someone."

"Pretty handy for a criminal," Weiss admitted. "But what has that got to do with Nadia?"

"They used this on her. Elena made sure that Nadia's DNA would never test correctly again. Probably she did this back when Nadia was a little girl – the papers were pretty old, which means her stuff was way, way advanced –"

Science would soon carry Marshall away again. Weiss interjected, "Why would they do this? She was a kid. So Sloane wouldn't find her with The Telling? He did anyway."

"Heck, I don't know why. Did make one kinda important discovery, kinda nice too, if you think about it." Marshall beamed, almost proudly. "Sloane's not Nadia's father. Jack is."

The sounds that came out of Weiss' throat wasn't exactly a word, just sort of a "Whuzzuh?"

"Once I figured out her DNA had been futzed with, I had to figure out how to get the serum calibrated right," Marshall explained, gesturing with his hands. "So I started working with Syd's DNA – that's all on record, because of the whole thing with the, you know, with the fire. And I realized all these factors were the same, like, a LOT of factors if they were just half-siblings. Had a hunch, got Jack's blood samples – I have some, that's kind of a long story – and that gave me the right results."

"Jack's her father," Weiss said, just repeating it to make it real. "Maybe Elena did that just to hide Nadia from her real dad? But that doesn't make sense either."

Marshall shrugged. "Still, that's nice for Jack, huh? Not so nice for Mr. Sloane, though –"

"It doesn't matter. I mean, except for getting the serum right." This was depressingly true. Compared to Nadia's safety, the question of her parentage was small potatoes.

"The serum's right. That much I know."

He didn't add that nothing else was certain; he didn't have to. A shiver of doubt went through Weiss, but he pushed it aside. Nadia had one chance, and he had only one night to get it to her. This was no time for second thoughts.

 

**North of Ekibastuz, Kazakhstan**

 

Combing through her hair with her fingers, Sydney grimaced as she felt how greasy it had become. "If we get out of this, the first thing I'm going to do is take a bath."

"Kill Katya first," her father said. His own hair, no longer controlled with brushings, had begun to curl more and verged on the unruly. He was pacing beneath their one window, ignoring the few snowflakes that blew in. "Bathe afterward."

"You kill Katya. I'll bathe."

"Deal."

They shared half-smiles; gallows humor was almost a tradition, in situations like these.

In the four days they'd remained captive, the weather had only become colder. That morning she'd found ice crusting on some of the stones. If either of them had been captured alone, they'd have frozen to death by now; only huddling together at night to conserve warmth kept them alive.

_Maybe that's what Katya's going to do,_ Sydney thought. _ Maybe she won't come question us after all. Maybe she's just going to leave us here, slowly starving and freezing, until we waste away. _The thought scared her more than any death by violence ever had or could

Jack's pacing stopped, mid-step. "Vehicles approaching."

She tilted her head; yes, there it was, so distant it was almost lost in the wind, but getting louder. "It might just be new guards. Replacements."

"Possibly." He didn't sound convinced, with good reason.

Sydney stood up and went to her father's side. She could have taken her father's hand – she wanted to, badly – but she didn't. This was no time to tug at his heartstrings; this was time to be hard.

The door swung open, and Katya came in with three of her guards. She had a long steel tube in her hands, although she did not threaten them with it; when her aunt smiled at them, Sydney was momentarily, bizarrely reminded of a majorette posing with her baton. "How kind of you to visit, coming all the way to Kazakhstan. We have these family reunions so seldom."

"Could we skip the 'baiting' portion of the program?" Sydney raised an eyebrow.

"Only if you agree to skip the bravado. Equally wearying, and even less justified."

Jack asked, "Where's Arvin Sloane?" The question surprised Sydney, though she couldn't quite say why.

"He's working with my people, making sure the Mueller Device is assembled properly. And in case you were wondering – he has no idea that you're here. I think Rambaldi will always be more important to Sloane than any human connection, but he's strangely sentimental about you two. Best not to tempt fate."

Was she right? Maybe. Maybe he was sabotaging the Mueller Device instead. Sydney wanted to believe that, but she parceled her belief out sparingly these days. "My mother's missing," she lied quickly. "Is she working with you?"

"She's not working with me." Katya's face took on an expression of grief that Sydney had never imagined her capable of; at first she expected mock-sorrow for Irina's supposed death, but apparently the reaction was genuine, because her aunt quickly tried to cover. "I've worked by myself now for many years, though both Irina and Elena had reason to believe differently."

Sydney thought,_ At least we know that she believes Mom's dead. That's one advantage we've got. _ She realized dimly that she was instinctively including her mother on "their side," but had no time to reflect upon the fact.

Jack must have seen Katya's vulnerability too, because he pressed further. "We've learned that you're Monarch. What we don't know is when – and why – you reached out to Michael Vaughn."

"Years ago, and for my own reasons." Already she had regained her composure. "But you seem to have forgotten that I'm not the one answering questions in this interrogation. I'm asking them."

And then she slammed the metal tube into Jack's side.

Sydney cried out as her father stumbled to the wall; two of the guards grabbed her, their grip like shackles, just before Katya struck her father again. Then again. He didn't shout, only grimaced, but somehow that only made it worse.

"No," Sydney whispered. "Not my father, don't do this to my father. I'm the one you want!"

"Your father has rather superhuman endurance. I'm in a position to know." Katya's smile was strange, an affectation of mirth she obviously didn't really feel. "I think he'll last longer than you would, and I think it might take quite a bit of questioning to get at the answers."

"Tell her nothing." Jack's whisper won him a boot in the knee from the other guard, which sent him sliding toward the floor; the impact seemed to hit Sydney too, flushing her hot, then cold, the physical manifestation of horror.

Why hadn't she realized this might happen? But she hadn't. Even as she saw it before her eyes, it seemed so wrong – so impossible – that her father could be the victim, could be the one in pain, at risk. Memories of a jail cell in Kashmir flashed before her eyes, the helplessness Sydney had known as she watched Gerard Cuvee point a gun at Jack's head; that was the only time she'd faced a moment like this. It had devastated her then, and this was a hundred times worse.

_Promise,_ she'd said to her father. Sydney tried to grasp for the resolve she'd asked from him, but there was only the cold, and the metal bar in Katya's hands, and her father's eyes as he looked up at his torturer.

"I don't enjoy causing your father pain," Katya said. "At least, not in these circumstances." _Wham! _ The tube struck him across the back, so hard that he half-coughed, half-retched. "So let me explain what it is I need, right away. Perhaps we needn't draw this out."

"I won't." Tears welled in her eyes, but Sydney kept repeating the words, giving them the strength her body didn't have. "I won't."

"I sent Mr. Vaughn on a mission some months ago, though he didn't know it." Pacing in a semicircle around Jack, Katya smacked the tube against her empty palm twice, then brought the end down on one of his hands, hard enough to break the skin. The sight of his blood was lost in the hot blur of tears. As Jack struggled against the pain, the third guard cuffed him, rendering him even more helpless. "I needed him to destroy several Rambaldi artifacts; you see, I wasn't the only one with the idea of rebuilding the device. Merely the only one who was going to succeed."

Jack was breathing hard, but not so much that he couldn't speak. "Don't listen to her."

Quietly, Katya said, without looking down at him, "Right now, I'm planning on letting you keep your fingers, Jack. You're so good with them, after all. Don't tempt me to regret such generosity."

"You _wanted_ the artifacts destroyed?" The knowledge was almost as horrifying as her father's plight. All this time – her master plan, her big action that wasn't a reaction – she'd played right into Katya's hands. Sickened, Sydney thought for a moment that she might vomit.

"Most of them. Not all. I hadn't counted on your involvement – or, to be honest, Mr. Vaughn's effectiveness." Katya clanged the metal tube against the floor, ringing out against the stone, reminding both Sydney and Jack how hard it was. "One item no longer in existence is rather sorely missed. I believe you're familiar with the DiRegno heart?"

Sydney didn't know whether to be relieved or afraid, but this was a situation where the truth would be the best answer. "I can't tell you where to find it. It's been destroyed. By now it's ash."

"I suspected as much." As Katya stepped closer to Jack, Sydney saw her father looking at her face, willing her to have courage. "Yet the heart itself isn't all that important. The beat – that was what mattered. The rhythm between the systole and diastole described a ratio that I need very, very badly."

_Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub –_ Sydney heard it in her head without willing it there, a beat even stronger than her own frantic pulse.

"You heard it beating." Katya circled the now-bound Jack, who glared up at her, though he was on his knees. "You can replay it as accurately as any tape recorder; I know what your memory is trained to accomplish. So tell me the ratio, Sydney. That's all I need. Tell me that and we're done."

"And then you kill us," she managed to respond.

"Kill the Chosen One?" Genuinely shocked, Katya took one step toward her. "That would be madness. As for Jack – well. There are certain resources it would be a shame to waste. No, Sydney. Neither of you will die today. The only question is how much your father will suffer. The amount is up to you."

She swung the tube into his side. The other side. The thigh. The thigh again –

_No no no no no no no no. _Sydney's mind had lost the ability to grasp onto any other word, any other thought. Images from her memory flickered and vanished, glimpses of a man who had pretended to be in pain so that she would tell the truth. She had answered pretense for pretense. Her father's pain was real.

"The ratio," Katya repeated.

_Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub –_

Wham! His side again, and now a stripe of blood showed through his robes, testament to broken skin beneath. _Wham! _The same side, and Jack groaned – just a little, he was fighting it so hard, and his struggle broke Sydney's heart as much as the pain.

Rationalizations bubbled up inside her, the familiar denial-panic Sydney had felt so many times before, but stronger than ever. _Tell her a lie! Make a ratio up! But Katya would just come back. Sloane can sabotage the Mueller Device, so it doesn't matter if Katya has the ratio! Mom will get to her in time! _ To accept that, Sydney would have to have faith in them both, and she wasn't that person anymore.

Jack doubled over from the next strike, and when Katya rammed the metal pole into his gut, he fell to the stone floor so heavily that it was almost like another blow. His breathing was irregular now, his body shaking from adrenalin shock. If Katya caused organ damage, he might end up hemorrhaging internally, bleeding to death over hours or even days while Sydney watched helplessly.

_Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub –_

"The ratio, Sydney. Tell me the ratio."

Sydney half-sobbed, "Nadia would hate you for this."

Katya paused; the jab had struck home. But then her aunt shrugged sadly. "Poor Nadia is beyond hate now. Beyond love." She readied the pole to strike again, and though Jack steadfastly remained silent, Sydney could see him tense, anticipating the impact. "The question is, are you?"

_Wham! _Her father's side. _Wham! _ The same side again. _Wham! _ The same side again, and the stripe of blood grew darker and wider as he split open.

As Katya brought the pole up again, fine droplets of blood spattered onto Sydney's cheek.

_Sloane – Mom – Vaughn – they can, they will -- _

"Five to four!" Sydney screamed. "The ratio is five to four."

Crying racked her even harder as Katya stepped away from her father, who lay shaking on the stone. "If you're lying, it will cost him."

"I'm not." She wasn't. "So stop. Just stop."

"I believe you." Katya nodded firmly and gestured to the guards, who half-threw Sydney to the floor beside Jack. The handcuff keys jangled on the stone floor, only a few feet away. "The next time we talk will be more pleasant, I assure you. I appreciate the cooperation."

Sydney fumbled with the keys, still sobbing, struggling to free her father's wrists. "Go to hell."

Katya sighed. "I suppose it's going to take the relationship a while to heal." Then she was gone, and Sydney was alone with her father.

Once she'd uncuffed him, Jack rolled over onto his back, visibly struggling for control though he couldn't even sit up. "Sydney – you shouldn't have told her."

"Can you stop nagging me for once?" She wiped at her cheeks. "Dad, oh, Dad –"

"Wasn't – nagging." He swallowed hard. "I just meant – you didn't have to – tell her."

"I told her because I wanted to. The cut on your side – how deep is it?"

"It's not that bad," her father said, as though the bloodstains weren't real. "But – the Mueller Device –"

"Never happen. Sloane will stop her, or Mom. Maybe even Vaughn." It wasn't denial anymore; somehow, Sydney meant it. She couldn't find faith, but it had found her. Or was this desperation in another form? It didn't matter.

Jack tried once again to sit, then gave in and lay back, relaxing as much as his injuries allowed. Sydney clung to his uninjured hand.

The hardened person she'd tried to be the past several months – the one she'd believed she had actually become – would have let Jack suffer or even die rather than give in. But Sydney knew at last that she could never get there. She wasn't sure whether this was victory or defeat, as she and her bloodied father held hands on the floor of their cell.

**

Vaughn could make out movement in the distance through his binoculars – but there was still no telling how many people there were at the old fortress, or what they were doing. Yes, he might have found one of Monarch's installations; on the other hand, he might have found a group of old men taking a trip into the mountains to remember their youthful days as nomads half a century ago.

He could have sworn he'd heard engines a few minutes back; under his breath, Vaughn cursed, frustrated that he hadn't arrived in time to see what they were and – maybe more importantly – who they carried.

The longitude and latitude weren't right – Rambaldi hadn't chosen this spot – but it was directly between two of the points, and Vaughn thought he might at least have found a guard station. Hope sprang up in him; maybe he would get to Sydney in time after all.

His exhaustion threatened to tow him down; Vaughn hadn't slept since he'd spoken to Irina Derevko, and he'd hardly stopped. He'd eaten only enough to keep himself going. The thought of Sydney drove him onward, more hurtful and effective than any goad.

Even since he'd translated the Milan Prophecy, Vaughn had been haunted by nightmares; one of them was coming true even now. Sydney was in danger, life-threatening danger, and Vaughn's presence might be the element that changed it all, made it worse, cost Sydney her life.

_You've kept her safe before, _he told himself. _You can do it again._ Right now, Sydney had nobody but Irina, and although no Derevko woman would ever admit it, even Irina had limits. She'd need backup, and Vaughn knew he was the only possible option. Even if he was destined someday to fail, he could do his damnedest not to fail Sydney tonight.

But his awareness of the danger both from him and around him made Vaughn cautious. For the fourth time in fifteen minutes, Vaughn used the binoculars and swept the horizon.

For the first time, he saw someone. A figure on camelback – approaching at 3 o'clock –

Shit, shit, shit. Vaughn put one hand on his gun, though he wouldn't fire and give away his presence unless necessary. _Who the hell is that? _

 

**

Vaughn hadn't listened to her. Irina was disappointed, but upon reflection, hardly surprised.

As her camel loped across the rolling, rocky desert toward Vaughn – and whatever encampment lay beyond it – she activated her commlink, hoping against hope that her instincts were right.

Within 30 seconds, she heard, "Send a doctor, but not until morning. I'll want them grateful."

Katya. _A doctor – my God, she's already hurt them. _

Katya had switched to the scrambled bandwidth the Derevkos had used back in the old days, believing it secure now that both her sisters were dead. Irina had guessed as much; it was what she would have done. The temptation to inform Katya otherwise – in effect, shouting into Katya's ear – was great, but Irina knew that revealing her survival would mean surrendering Sloane's life. They might need him yet, to save Sydney and Jack.

"Should we prepare for activation tonight? Now that we have the ratio –"

"Not tonight," Katya said. Through the static, her voice sounded sad – but Irina no longer put as much faith in her understanding of her sister. "Tonight is important for its own purpose, one that should remain sacred in its own right. Tomorrow is better."

A pause. "Sacred? Monarch, is there – what should we do?"

"It's beyond any of our hands. I found the date in the prophecies, something Rambaldi made known only to me. Tonight is the night the colcothar will be used. This is the night the Passenger will die."

Irina put her hand over her mouth, holding back the cry. She'd always known Nadia was lost – always, even before she ever held her – but it didn't make it easier.

_At least she found me. At least Sydney loved her, at least Jack looked after her. At least Weiss loved her. Even her worthless father protected her. _

All of it real, all of it true. But these small blessings were poor protection against the shattering reality of grief. Irina remembered hearing that Sydney was dead; it had been both worse for the child she'd known and better, because at least she had memories. Nadia was still the infant snatched from her arms all those years ago; the sound in her heart was the same terrible scream she'd shrieked then, though no one would hear or care.

_Save the child you have,_ she told herself savagely, and drove her mount forward.

 

**Los Angeles, California**

 

Weiss held Nadia's hand in both of his.

"I love you." No matter what else he believed or doubted, Weiss was sure she could hear. "This is almost over, Nadia. You're almost free."

Mandy the night nurse had let him have a syringe; he'd claimed that he had to give Alan shots when he got home from the vet and wanted to start practicing. She'd recommended that he use an orange. And so Weiss had spent the last couple of hours shooting up citrus fruit and feeling like the weirdest junkie on earth.

He'd have to remember to tell Nadia that. She'd think it was funny, and there was nothing in the world more beautiful than her smile.

Carefully, Weiss filled the syringe, spilling not so much as a drop of the amber liquid. He had to lose a little as he lowered the plunger, forcing out the air; a fine mist of the colcothar serum dotted the bedside table. When he'd come in, he'd been bearing flowers, as usual, and the petals of the orangey tulips turned brilliant yellow where the liquid touched them.

_Is that a good sign? A bad one? _

If only Jack and Sydney had been around to talk this through. If only Sloane could have put his endless Rambaldi obsession to good use for once. If only it weren't up to me.

But then – who loved her more? Who fought for her harder? No one. Weiss was aware that this didn't make him the right person to make this decision – he was pretty freakin' sure he wasn't – but it wasn't surprising that the choice had fallen to him, either.

He bound her upper arm with a rubber tie; blue veins swelled in the inside of her elbow, immediately responsive, as clear as a road map. Carefully, Weiss took her arm in one hand and the syringe in the other. His breath was shallow, and if he'd ever been more scared than this, he didn't remember when.

His hands didn't shake, though. Weiss didn't let them. He had work to do.

"It's gonna sting," he warned. "Just a little. And then it's all over." After a pause, Weiss said, once more – because he couldn't say it enough – "I love you."

The needle sank beneath her skin, and Weiss pushed the serum into her veins.

Had the machines around Nadia become louder, all of a sudden? It seemed as though he'd never been so aware of the beeping of the heart monitor, the whirring instruments that catalogued her, as he was right now. Weiss quickly unlooped the rubber strap, allowing the blood to circulate freely. Freed of the need to remain steady, his hands began trembling; when he tossed the syringe into the trash can, he nearly missed, and flinched when it clattered off the rim.

The heart monitor beeped faster, then slower – the rhythm was gone, replaced by irregularity –

"Nadia?"

An alarm sounded. Every single one of the machines seemed to go nuts, and Weiss realized to his horror that Nadia was beginning to convulse in the bed.

"What happened?" Mandy was in the doorway, her pink scrubs weirdly jarring.

Weiss didn't answer. What was he supposed to say?

_Oh, God. Oh, no. I made a mistake, I did the wrong thing, I've killed her._

Mandy checked Nadia's pulse and stared at the machines, but she couldn't do a damn thing; they just had to stand there and watch as –

\--as the heart monitor sped up, then became steady again.

As the machines all quieted.

As Nadia stopped shaking, took a deep breath, and then opened her eyes.

They stared at one another. Weiss didn't know if he believed what he saw; maybe he was hallucinating, maybe this was his wish come true, some kind of Owl Creek Bridge flip-out –

"Eric?" Her voice was rusty from disuse, creaking and faint, but hers. Nadia licked her lips, then tried again. "Eric, what happened?"

"You got shot." Damn, he'd spent months composing beautiful speeches of love for her, and that was all he could say?

"Dad. Elena – oh, my God." Nadia sat up – just sat up, like anybody else. "I remember."

Mandy said, "I'm calling the doctor right now."

As she ran off, Weiss took a tentative step forward; he wanted to hold Nadia, to hug her so tightly they fused into one person. But he was too lost in wonder. "How do you feel?"

"Weird." Nadia took a look around the room, obviously recognizing APO's medical setup. "Like I overslept. You know that feeling you get when you've slept a couple of hours past the time when you should wake up?"

"Uh, yeah."

She fixed him in her gaze. "How long was I out? Tell me."

"Eight months."

"I can't believe it." Nadia bent her elbow, obviously sore from the injection she'd just received. Rubbing the tiny red dot there, she said, "What did you do?"

Happiness finally pierced the fog of shock, and Weiss realized he was grinning like an idiot. "I proved once and for all that Rambaldi's prophecies are a big, fat lie."


End file.
